
Class 

Book: ^^'^^ 



Copyright ]^^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




^Pmo^'V'mr. 



THE BARD 



OF 



Mary Redcliffe 



BY 

ERNEST LACY 



ILLUSTRATED AUTOGRAPH EDITION 



PRINTED BY 

SHERMAN AND COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 

I9IO 






Copyright, 1910, by 
ERNEST LACY 



2)CI,A261243 



To 

THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, 

WILLIAM, 
This Book is Dedicated 



AUTOGRAPH EDITION 



Limited to Three Hundred and Fifty Copies 



No.-*?-.^.- 





Printed for 



Beware ! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair / 
Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread j 
For he on honey -dew hath fed 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. — Kubla Khan. 



(V) 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



The North Porch of Mary Redcliffe, . . Frontispiece 
The Tomb of William Canynge in the South 

Transept, 5 k 

Steep Street, 63 v 

The Old Fox Inn, 871^ 

Chatterton (^From the Painting by Henry Wallis)^ 166 ; 



(vii) 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



Thomas Chatterton, the Bard of Mary Redcliffe, 

Richard Phillips, his uncle, Sexton of Maiy Redcliffe. 

Thomas Phillips, an usher in the Colston School. 

Mrs. Chatterton, the Poef s mother. 

Mary Chatterton, her daughter. 

Henry Burgum, a wealthy pewter er. 

Bertha Burgum, his daughter. 

James Thistlethwaite, a teacher in the Colston School. 

Thomas Broughton, the Vicar of Mary Redcliffe. 

John Lambert, an attorney to whom Chatterton is 

bound. 
Mrs. Lambert, his fnother. 
Sam, his footboy. 
Alice, 
Betty, 
Dorothy, 
Agnes, 

Alexander Catcott, the Vicar of Temple Church. 
George Catcott, his brother. 
William Barrett, a surgeon. 

(ix) 



girls in Bristol. 



persons IRepresente^ 

Horace Walpole, son of the former Prime Minister of 

England. 
Thomas Harris, the Mayor of Bristol. 
Captain Francisco, a highwayman. 
Monsieur Barthelemon, the leader of the band in the 

Gardens, 
Mrs. Angell, the keeper of a lodging-house. 
Harry Angell, her son, ten years of age. 
Bertha Angell, her daughter, six years of age. 

Street-criers ; a gingerbread-man, a flower-girl, mum- 
mers and spectators ; first gentleman, second gentle- 
man, first girl, second girl, other patrons of Mary- 
lebone Gardens^ and gods and goddesses in the 
burletta. 

Scenes : Bristol and London. Time : From the middle 
of April to the latter part of August, 1770. 



(>^) 



DESCRIPTIONS OF THE CHARACTERS. 



Thomas Chatterton, 

the Bard of Mary Redcliffe, though not yet eighteen 
years of age, is as mature in body as he is in mind. He 
is medium -sized, strong and agile ; his mouth is large ; 
his nose straight ; his forehead high ; his auburn hair 
long and flowing. His gray eyes, one of which is more 
brilliant than the other, are remarkable for the fire roll- 
ing at the bottom of them — a fire sometimes seen in 
black eyes, but not in gray ones. His motions, like his 
words, are sudden and swift, indicating the immediate 
passing of thought into action. 

Richard Phillips, 

his uncle and Sexton of Mary Redcliffe, is lean, grizzly, 
and wrinkled. Were he to stand erect, he would be 
taller than the average man, but grave-digging has 
stooped his shoulders and robbed him of a foot in 
height. His slow steps seem timed to the movement 
of a dirge, his downcast eyes suggest walking over sepul- 
chral brasses, and his hushed voice whispers of long 
comradeship with the dead. 

(xi) 



Bescrtpttons ot tbe Cbaracters 

Thomas Phillips, 

an usher in the Colston School, is in his twenty -sixth 
year. He is homely in the word's twofold sense : his 
form is meagre and awkward ; his hair is scant ; his 
features are irregular ; but his large brown eyes have a 
fireside glow that radiates happiness to others, and he 
leaves the impression of his being a big man — a rudely- 
hewn foundation rock, underground, on which the 
loftiest spire could rest. 

Mrs. Chatterton, 

the Poet's mother, is a plain, primitive little woman, 
with flaxen hair streaked with white, and a countenance 
of the ordinary type. In person and even in a trick of 
tone, she resembles Thomas as a painter's first sketch 
resembles his finished work. Unreasoning love, with 
its faith and anxiety, beams from her face ; and, while 
her son is speaking, she gazes at him with eyes as full of 
wonder as is the proverbial hen when she sees the gos- 
ling she has hatched disporting in a pond. 

Mary Chatterton, 

her daughter, is a spirited girl, two years older than the 
Poet. She is somewhat taller than her mother, and is 

(xii) 



Bescrtpttons ot the Cbaracters 

possessed of a symmetrical figure, brown curling hair, 
and gleaming black eyes, in which a strange light flits 
at times, vanishing like Will-o'-the-wisp. She is, the 
gossips say, the image of her departed father. 

Henry Burgum, 
a wealthy pewterer, is in middle life, burly and bluster- 
ing. Physically, he is a second Dr. Johnson without 
the marks of scrofula or learning. Ignorant, pompous, 
and ungainly as he is, however, he excites an amused 
tolerance, which, one feels, might pass into a phase of 
affection, if, by the beating of tam-tams, the imp of 
arrogance could be expelled from his inflated chest. 

Bertha Burgum, 

his daughter, is, perhaps, of some ancestral mould. One 
year younger than Chatterton, she has those dewy 
charms of form clustering round the word, girlish. Her 
features are small and regular, her rippling hair is of a 
golden tint, and her eyes are of the deepest blue. 
Ethereal she might be called, were it not that, when 
deeply moved, her cheeks flush, her bosom heaves, and 
her voice trembles till reassured by its own sound, and 
then it flows with nervous force. A Saxon beauty she 
is to her lover — the embodiment of Bertha in his 
tragedy of * ^lla. ' 

( xi» ) 



2)e9crtptton0 ot tbe Cbaracters 

James Thistlethwaite, 
a teacher in the Colston School, is in his early twenties. 
He is swarthy in hue and diminutive in size ; but his 
frame prefigures corpulence, as his hair betokens bald- 
ness in old age. His broad forehead, his twinkling 
black eyes, and his shapely nose lend, to the upper part 
of his face, a benign expression, which is contradicted 
by the ugly mouth and the heavy jaws below. He smiles 
constantly, chuckles good-naturedly as he talks, and 
habitually places his arm on the shoulders of friend or 
foe. Eternal activity on the fruitful surface of affairs, 
however, is indicated by an endless glide of words 
uttered in a nasal tone. 

Thomas Broughton, 

the Vicar of Mary Redcliffeand author of ' An Histori- 
cal Dictionary of all Religions from the Creation of the 
World to this Present Time, ' is a tall, handsome man 
in the prime of life. His complexion is olive ; his hair 
and eyes match the colour of his clerical garb ; his 
every gesture is studied, for he stalks before a mirror in 
his mind ; and his attitude, even while sitting, is stiff 
and upright, as if he had an unbending creed for a back- 
bone. His voice is clear, cold, and incisive, like that 
of the accusing angel, and proclaims that the episode of 
(xiv) 



descriptions of tbe Cbaracters 

scourging the changers from the temple is, to him, the 
whole of sacred history. 

John Lambert, 

an attorney to whom Chatterton is bound, is a wiry, 
irritable, prosaic snip of a man, evidently afraid of his 
own shadow. His skin is as yellow as parchment ; his 
pale eyes, with inflamed lids, show red ; and his fore- 
head, cheeks, and chin converge toward the point of his 
nose. He is, indeed, a human ferret that would, with 
equal unction, dislodge a rat from its hole or a rabbit 
from its burrow. 

Mrs. Lambert, 

his mother, is a thin old woman, thin in every wise — 
thin body, thin hair, thin cheeks, thin nose, thin lips, 
thin voice, and a thin soul that conceives Providence to 
be as thin as itself. 

Sam, 

Lambert's footboy and Chatterton' s bedfellow, is a 
blowzy youth, with bristling hair, a turned-up nose, and 
a puckered mouth. His constant stretching and yawn- 
ing show that sleep is his ambition — an ambition 
strengthened, perhaps, by his chum's nightly inspira- 
tions. 

(XV) 



Bescrtpttons of tbe (Tbaracters 

Alice, Betty, Dorothy, and Agnes, 

girls in Bristol, are all in the witching teens. Alice is a 
stately blonde, gravely sensitive ; Betty, a tiny brunette, 
charmingly silly. Dorothy is plump and Agnes slender ; 
but both are of the usual height, both have brown hair 
and blue eyes, and both are romantically sentimental. 

Alexander Catcott, 
the Vicar of Temple Church and author of * A Treatise 
on the Deluge, ' is a spare old gentleman, with a cracked 
voice and a shuffling gait. His lamp-bleached face is 
set with watery-blue eyes, is slit with a purple-lipped 
mouth, and is provided with a long, pointed nose that 
suggests poking into antiquated rubbish. His sparse, 
white hair, falling over his cheeks, adds to his kindly 
expression, and completes the illusion that he has just 
stepped out of the ark. 

George Catcott, 
his brother, is his junior by fifteen years. There is, 
indeed, a faint family-likeness, but it defies analysis ; 
for George is shorter and stouter than the Vicar, his 
eyes are darker, his nose is small and reddened at the 
tip, his mouth is capacious, and his voice is harsh and 
explosive. In brief, his looks and his manners harmonise 
(xvi) 



Bescripttons ot tbe Cbaractets 

with his habit of sputtering his decrees in an ale-house, 
and boasting that he climbed St. Nicholas steeple and left 
a pewter record of his daring under the topmost stone. 

William Barrett, 

a surgeon and author of * The History and Antiquities of 
the City of Bristol,' is lanky, athletic, and featured like 
a Roman. Here, however, the semblance ends. A 
keen observer would soon note that the antiquarian has 
learning without culture and boldness without courage, 
and would rate him as a weak, sensitive man that might 
be killed by criticism hostile to his book. 

Horace Walpole, 

son of the former Prime Minister of England, is fifty- 
three years old, short and slender, but compact and 
neatly made. His complexion is of an unhealthy pale- 
ness ; his eyes are very dark and lively; his wig is un- 
powdered, combed straight and queued behind ; his 
voice is low and musical, but his laugh is forced and un- 
couth, and even his smile is unpleasant. He walks with 
affected delicacy — knees bent and feet on tip-toe, as if 
afraid of a wet floor — and never wears a hat, but carries 
it under his arm or between his hands, as if he wished 
to compress it. — \Taken from contemporaneous descrip- 
tions of Walpole. '\ 

( xvii ) 



2)escrtptton0 ot tbe Cbaracters 

Thomas Harris, 

the Mayor of Bristol, is in the belly-god period of ex- 
istence — too young to be scared into reformation, and 
too old to be lured into active vice. His huge feet, his 
stocky legs, his fat jowls, and his ponderous paunch 
make him appear squat, though, in reality, he is rather 
tall. His large, round head — with beady eyes, fiat nose, 
and expansive mouth — flaunts a shock of coarse, black 
hair; and his bushy eyebrows^ while he speaks or chews, 
wave up and down like the wings of hovering vultures. 
In conversation, he gives vent to a big, guttural voice, 
broken by gasps and grunts ; and when in motion, he 
rolls from side to side, like a merchantman caught in the 
trough of the sea. His relish for turtles may be ascribed 
to heredity of office ; for history records that the mayors 
of Bristol were notorious for this weakness, and that 
one of them, on a journey, allotted a special chariot to 
the green-shelled monsters, and, distrustful of country 
kitchen-maids, took a skilful cook along. 

Captain Francisco, 

a highwayman, is not more than five and thirty to the 
view. His figure is slim and boyish ; his skin is of a 
transparent whiteness on his forehead, but gradually 
( xviii ) 



Bescttpttons ot tbe Cbaracters 

darkens to the heavy tan on his chin ; his features are 
effeminate in cast ; his hands and feet are small : his 
bearing is aristocratic ; and his dress is exquisite. There 
is, too, a mildness in his light-blue eyes ; but this, like 
his person^ is deceptive, for it denotes a calmly desper- 
ate man, who, did he not live in a Broughtonian age, 
might be an honoured one. 

Monsieur Barthelemon, 

the leader of the band in Marylebone Gardens, is 
middle-aged, low and slender in stature, and so excita- 
ble that he expresses himself as much by antics as by 
words. His chronic look of outraged genius, it may be 
added, lends further proof that he has the artistic tem- 
perament, which claims the earth as its preserve and 
brands every one else a poacher. 

Mrs. Angell, 

the keeper of a lodging-house, is a young matron, plump 
in form, comely in face, and motherly in her ways ; for 
she has not yet been hardened by the cares of letting 
rooms. Harry, her son, is an urchin of ten mischievous 
years ; and Bertha, her daughter, is a coy little maid of 
six summers, with hair so red that even her future lover 
can not mistake it for auburn. 

(xix) 



of 

P\ax^ Fe^cliffe 



(xxi ) 



THE BARD 

OF 

MARY REDCLIFFE. 



ACT FIRST. 



Scene. — The muniment room near the summit of the 
hexagonal porch of St. Mary Redcliffe^ Bristol. 
Four sides of. the apartment are shown, three of 
which are pierced by a series of windows of four 
lights each. At the right, an oaken door opens on 
winding steps that lead to the roof above and to the 
interior of the porch below. Seven coffers of various 
sizes are scattered about the place. Before the rise 
of the curtain there is a chime of bells. Theii the 
voices of a choir are heard faintly as the curtain 
rises, disclosing the moonlit room with a monk, in 
cowl and scapular, writing on the top of one of the 
coffers, by the light of a single candle. Suddenly 
the music increases in volume, and then diminishes 

I 



Act I.] ube 3Bart) ot 



as the closing of a heavy door is heard. As footsteps 
sound upon the spiral stairway, the monk blows out 
the candle, and conceals himself by raising the lid of 
the coffer. Then the Sexton, with jangling keys iii 
one hand and a lanthorn in the other, appears and 
stands in the doorway, looking down the steps. 

Sexton. \_Holding the lanthorn above his head.'] 
Be careful, sir, the steps are steep and winding ; 
And if you fall, you'll be whirled round so oft 
You will be giddy ere you reach the bottom. 

Phillips. [From below.] 
Well, if I fall, I'll fall into the church. 

Sexto7i. The door is locked and is of oak and iron : 
Best keep your footing. 

Phillips. [Reaching the landing and pointing up the 

stairway,] 

Whither does this lead ? 

Sexton. Unto the roof, from which there is a view 
As far as Clifton and Prince Rupert's Fort. 
Will you go up ? 

Phillips. I'll wait till Thomas comes : 

He asked me, sir, to meet him here at curfew. 

Sexton. \As they enter the room.] 
So your name's Phillips ; my name's Phillips, too : 
We may be relatives. 



/iDar^ IRe^clitfe* [act i. 

Phillips. We may, indeed. 

I am the usher at the Bluecoat School 
Who taught your nephew until he was bound 
To Lambert, the attorney. 

Sexton. It is strange 

He never spoke of you j and yet 'tis not. 
For seldom does he speak of any one 
Save Canynge, who re-edified this church, 
And Rowley, his priest-poet. 

Phillips. Who were alive 

In reigns of Henry Sixth and Edward Fourth. 

Sexton. But have you read the poems Rowley 
wrote ? 

Phillips. A few of them : The Parliament of Sprites, 
The Bristowe Tragedy, The Tournament ; 
And Thomas purposes to read to-night 
A Song to .^lla. 

Sexton. Are they not beautiful ? 

Phillips. As beautiful as white and red rose blended. 

Sexton. My nephew found them in these very chests, 
With parchment proofs that Burgum takes descent 
From some old Norman knight ; and, rarer still, 
A manuscript describing Master Mayor's 
First passing over the old Bristol bridge 
In time of Henry Third. 

3 



Act I.] Zbc BarC) ot 



Phillips. What angel led 

To all this coffered wealth ? 

Sexton. Tom's father, sir. 

Phillips. I thought that Chatterton the elder died 
Before his son was born. 

Sexton. Both truths are true. — 

Sit down upon that chest. — The Chattertons 
Were sextons here two hundred years and more. 

Phillips. He told me that. 

Sexton. Proud is he of his birth 

As a rooster of his treading ; all are proud. 
His father — has he told you aught of him ? 

Phillips. That he was master of the Pyle Street School, 
And a sub-chaunter in the Cathedral here ; 
Was fond of music and of rare antiques — 

Sexton. Too fond of music and of rare old wine. 
Music or wine alone we can withstand ; 
But wine and music mingled, like rum-punch, 
Drive us to woman or the devil, sir. 

Phillips. But what of Thomas ? 

Sexton. Listen or narrate. 

Old Chatterton, who thought his lineage made 
This church his chapel, robbed these ancient chests, 
And covered school books with the precious parchments. 

Phillips. And he a man of learning ! 

4 





1 




mmmmmmmmm 






■^ li^iiL 



W^-' 



^ 



mrt^mmmmmmmmmmm 





if^^ 



mmm 



/iDar^ IRebclitfe^ [act i. 

Sexton. One of these 

The youthful Thomas found, and fell in love 
With its illuminated capitals. 
Till then we thought the lad a hopeless dunce \ 
For he was stupid and would sit and cry, 
Saying he wept because he had been born. \Laugks. 

Phillips. Misunderstood from birth. 

Sexto7i. But from that day 

He took to reading, as a babe to milk, 
And spent his holidays within this church. 
Brooding the aisles or rummaging these chests. 
Why, I have seen him sit by Canynge's effigy 
Two mortal hours, as white and motionless 
As the alabaster angel on the tomb. 

Phillips. Where is old Rowley buried ? 

Sexton. No one knows : 

Canynge's purse-bearer, cook, and brewer lie 
In the south transept, but his poet's bones 
Rest in a grave obscure. 

Phillips. 'Tis very strange. 

Has Thomas searched for it ? 

Sexton. I can not say : 

But once I came upon him in this room. 
His hands and face besmeared with lead and ochre. 
And when I merely asked what he was doing, 

5 



Act I.] Ubc 3Batt) ot 



He flew into a passion, and then begged 
To be left with Rowley. And away I went ; 
For he could wheedle bones from kennelled hounds 
Without their snarling. — Would you like to see 
His birthplace ? You can view it from the windows. 

[^G(?es to the windows and Phillips follows him. 

Phillips. Yes, show me everything and tell me all ; 
For he has been secretive, and his eyes 
Like the gray eyne of Dawn, are ever turned 
To a golden noontide and a sunset crimson. 

Sexton. Why bless my soul, you talk like Thomas, sir ! 
You see that building just beyond Pump Lane ? 
Well, that is Pyle Street School ; behind it stands 
The master's house where Chatterton was born. 

Phillips. His mother lives there still ? 

Sexton. No : on the hill 

By the upper gate ; she keeps a dame-school now. 

Male Hawke?\ \_F}'om the street 7[ 

Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot spice gingerbread ! 

\Sings.'\ 

It is all hot, nice smoking hot, 

Or I would not so cry ; 
But if you won't believe, you sot, 

You need but taste and try. 

Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot spice gingerbread ! 

6 



/iDar^ 1Ret)clitfe^ [act i. 

Sexton. [ IVJiile the cry is dying away in the distance.~\ 
He bakes good gingerbread. 

Phillips. And makes good verse. 

Sexton. That is the leaning tower of Temple Church. 
Catcott, the Vicar, is a friend to Thomas ; 
He writes about the Deluge. 

Phillips. So I hear. 

Sexton. There's Burgum's house upon the Avon's 
bank, 
This side those fig trees in St. Peter's garden. 
Barrett, the historian of Bristol, lives — 

Phillips. I see the house : 'tis near the Colston School. 
Sexton. Well, when perplexed he comes for aid to 
Thomas. 
\Then pointing out the different Churches. ~\ 
St. Nicholas, Christ Church, All Saints', and St. Wer- 

burgh's. 
Let us unto the roof : the view is better. 
Phillips. But if he come ? 

Sexton. \_Going.'\ We need not tarry long, 

[As they cross to the door, the monk rises and stands 
motionless in the moonlight as if reading a parch- 
ment. Then a distant bell begins to toll. 
Phillips. [Stopping.'^ The curfew. 
Sexton. Rung for ages from St. Nicholas. 

7 



Act I.] zbc 3Bar^ ot 



Phillips. [ Glancing round and seeing the monkJ\ 
Look there ! 

Sexton. \Turning.'\ O Heaven and Mary — Rowley's 
ghost ! 
Preserve us Saints ! \_Sinks tipo7i his knees. 

Phillips. Rise, sir ; it is some trick. 
Sexton. It is no trick ! 

It is no trick ! \_Then to the monk.~\ If we do trespass 

here, 
We will depart and leave your poems sacred. 

Phillips. Who are you ? Speak, or I will rush 

upon you ! 
Sexton. \Pisi7ig and restraining him.~\ 
No, we must not defy him — come away ! 
Phillips. I'll sound this mystery. 
Sexton. Oh, let us go ! 

Phillips. Who are you ? 

The Monk. \_Thro'wing off his cowl, aiid bursting into 
laughter r^ 

Thomas Chatterton ! 
Sexton. \jRaising the lanthorn.~\ 'Tis Thomas ! 

Chatterton. In truth it is, for Rowley's ghost is fled. 
\Then coi7iing down and taking their hands. '\ 
Forgive me, uncle and my dearest friend. 
This mediaeval masking. 'Twas unkind 
But not foreplanned ; and jesters must be cruel. 

8 



/iDar^ IRebcUfte. [act l 

Phillips. Why did you play the ghost ? 

Chatterton. 'Twas but a freak ; 

For when I write I do assume a guise 
To lure the archaic Muse. 

Phillips. \_Toitching the robe.'\ Was this found, too? 

Chatterton. My mother made it from my own design. 
You are not angry, PhiUips ? 

Phillips. Not at all. 

Chatterton. And you, dear uncle ? 

Sexton . \_Breathing hard. ] I have lost my speech . 

Chatterton. But eyes can look forgiveness; yet 'twas 
wrong. 
And I will wear no more the monkish garb 
When with my friends. \_Casts off the robe.'\ 

Phillips, shall I unmask ? 

Phillips. You have done so. 

Chatterton. Nay, you will deem that robe 

The veil of April to the cloak of March, 
Which blurs the golden sun to silver patch 
And dusks all England, when I do unmask. 

Phillips. You speak in cipher. 

Chatterton. And must so persist 

Until I quench this moonlight. 

\Goes to a coffer and takes out a bundle of can- 
dles, 

9 



Act l] XTbe 3Bar^ ot 



Sexton. \Apart to Phillips. '\ Have no fear : 

On nights like this the boy is flighty. 

Chatterton. \^Overheari7ig him.'\ Ay! 

The moon doth raise my spirits with the tides. 
\_The7i holding up a candle. '\ 
Here's that will make them ebb ; your lanthorn, uncle. 

Sexton. You'll set the church on fire ! 

Phillips. Be quiet, sir. 

Chatterton. \Lighting the candle and returning the 
lanthorn. ~\ 
What shall we dub this struggle ? Let it be 
* A Battle 'twixt the Candles and the Moon.' 
\Inverts the candle so that the tallow drops upon the chest. ~\ 
Its blood is sluggish ; we will name it Lambert. 
Hold fast, pale warrior, and oppose the Moon 
In this, your castle-city — call it * Bristol.' 
XPlaces the candle tpright on the chest a ?id lights another. "^ 
Hail Alexander Catcott, reverend Greek ! 
Your Treatise on the Deluge proves that you 
Can squire the Nightmare in his joust with Dreams. 
Stick there ! Now lend your darkling brother light. 
[Lights the third candle at the seco7id.'\ 
George Catcott, you who climbed St. Nicholas' spire, 
And, like an impious pigeon, left your mark 
Upon the steeple, do you blanch with fear 

lO 



flDar^ 1Re^clttfe♦ [act i. 

When argent shafts from Luna's archery- 
Pour through the loopholes of this donjon-keep? 
[ Waves his hand toward the 7nooiilight streaming into the 

windows ; places the third candle a?id lights the 

fourth. '\ 
The cry is * Barrett to the Rescue ! ' Come, 
Historian, bold when tilting 'gainst the truth; 
Stand firm : the airy arrows of the nymph 
Glance from your head-piece. \Places the fourth candle. ] 

Fancy faints — more light ! 
[Lights the fifth candle hurriedly. ~\ 
I would not have her dwindle into death. 
There, Thomas Harris, gross and greasy Mayor. 
\_P laces the fifth candle a?td lights the sixth. ~\ 
Now, Thistlethwaite, stand upright if you can. 
[Places the sixth candle and lights the seventh,'\ 
The last pale knight — shall it be christened * Phillips ' ? 
Nay, Phillips is for me, I for the Moon, 
And all for Phantasy ! — Courage, old Cutts. 
[Places the last candle, rises, and looks first at the difnmed 

moonlight and then at the seven burning candles. ~\ 
The Candles win ! — the Seven of the Storm, 
That dwell within the hollows of the Earth 
And ride in chariots drawn by dappled deer. 
Have quite eclipsed the Moon, and Fancy's dead. 

II 



ACT I.] xibe JSart) ot 



Sexton. Have you gone mad ? 

Phillips. I see it all, dear Thomas : 

It is your battle, and you fight alone ; 
May I be your ally ? 

Chatterton. [Seizing his hajtd.~\ O Phillips, Phillips ! 
'Twas but a needful prelude to my tale. 
I am encompassed by a host of fools : 
You cannot blame me if I wear a mask. 

Phillips. I do not blame you. 

Sexton. And I see no mask. 

Chatterton. You know of Row^ley, Phillips ? 

Phillips. Yes. 

Chatterton. His works? 

Phillips. What you have read to me. 

Chatterton. Are they of worth? 

Phillips. Surpassing worth ! 

Chatterton. Why then, if after charm 

Low chanted in some weird Egyptian strain, 
A waving wand, a rolling of the eyes, 
A sprinkling of a powder on these flames — 
These seven mystic flames — he should arise. 
What would you say ? 

Sexton. \_In alarm.'] He's mad ! 

Chatterton. Would welcome him? 

Phillips. As warmly as if Chaucer leaped to life. 

12 



/IDar^ IRebclttfe^ [act i. 

Chaffer to ft. I am the monk. 

Phillips. Impossible ! 

Sexton. Alas ! 

Chatterton. O doubting Thomas, had old Rowley lived, 
Think you my father would have covered books 
With golden fleece like this ? \Holds out a manuscript. 

Phillips. That did seem strange. 

Chatterton. Burgum lacks birth — I find it for him 
here ; 
Barrett needs chronicles — The Yellow Roll 
And Rowley's version of Turgot are found; 
Bristolians soon will celebrate their bridge — 
In Felix Farley's Journal will appear 
A rare account, in quaint old English writ, 
Of how the bridge was opened ages past. 

Phillips. Too opportune for truth. 

Chatterton. You wish more proof? 

Give me a theme : be it the nameless knight 
That in the transept lies with crossed legs 
To signify three visits to the shrine ; 
Or Admiral Penn's iron gauntlets, sword, cuirass, 
And helmet with the rampant lion's crest. 
Which rust beneath his trophies in the nave. 
Give me an olden theme, one moonlit night ; 
Then hear my song. 

13 



Act I.] Ubc Barb ot 



Phillips. I could not doubt your voice, 

Could I rebut your words. 

Sexton. 'Tis marvellous ! 

Chatterton. Here is a song to -^lla, nesh and clean 
As sacrificial lamb. I'll antiquate it. 
\_Takes from a coffer a piece of ochre in a brown pan, 
charcoal dust in a pounce-box, black-lead powder in 
a bottle ; then rubs the ochre on the parchment.^ 
This lends the fragrance of the Tudor rose. 
\_Sprinkles the charcoal over it.~\ 
This, of two roses — York and Lancaster. 
\Holds up the bottle of black-lead.~\ 
This used : 'twould savour of the golden broom, 
Whose Gallic seedling in our English soil 
Quickened to mighty oak — Plantagenet. 
\_Throws the parchment upon the floor, runs his foot over 

it, and then crumples it in his hand.~\ 
When they need more, I smoke them in the chimney. 
Phillips. \_Exa77iining the parchment. '\ It is well 

done. 
Sexton. \Looking over his shoulder. '\ Ay, marvel- 
lously well. 
Chatterton. Note the calligraphy, old words and all. 
There's wondrous sorcery in spelling, Phillips. 
Phillips. None could detect — 

14 



/iDar^ IRe^cUffe^ [act i. 

Chatterton. Not even Horace Walpole. 

But you shall see, for I have sent to him 
The Ryse of Peyncteynge, wroten by T. Rowleie ; 
And you will hear him drum and see him lift, 
Like partridge whirring to the fowler's call. 

Sextoti. He may discover — 

Chatterton. No. 

Phillips, But if he should ? 

Chatterton. What then ? Did he not publish his own 
work, 
The Castle of Otranto, as antique ? 

Phillips. Why not be open ? 

Chattertofi. I have tried it, Phillips : 

I once told Barrett, and he said I lied ; 
Nor would my poems be received as mine 
Till verdict was recorded past recall. 
Were I to leave this arrow-lede to fame, 
What of my mother? She is aging fast, 
And I have deepened furrows on her brow. 

Phillips. Your course in this seems clear. 

Chatterton. Why, who is wronged ? 

If these blood-rubies flash Promethean fire, 
What matter whom they dight, myself or Rowley ? — 
Dear uncle, Burgum will be here to-night. 

Sexton. Not here ? 

15 



Act I.] ube 3Barb of 



Chatterto?!. Yes, here : will you meet him below 

And light him up the steps ? 

Sexton. \Goi7ig.'\ That will I do, 

Be it for monk or nephew. 

Chatterton. Thank you, uncle. \Exit Sexton. 

Phillips, for giving Burgum Norman sires, 
My only plea is that I am part boy ; 
That he abused me, and I linked the lies 
To sport myself against the pompous man. 
I had not met her then. She comes with him 
To see where Rowley's soul is sepulchred. 

Phillips. Who comes ? 

Chatterton. Her name — think me not overfond — 

His daughter — Burgum' s daughter. 

Phillips. And do you — 

Chatterton. I hold my life less dear to me than art, 
And she is dearer than my dearest verse. 
More, gentle friend, I need not say to you : 
To word my love were to abase my love. 

Phillips. Does she responsive act ? 

Chatterton. No, not to me : 

She is in love with Rowley. 

Phillips. When she learns 

That Canynge's bard has less of earthly mould 
Than the purple image of a thunder-cloud 

i6 



/iDari^ 1Re^clitfe♦ [act i. 

Beheld in dreamful waters, will she change ? 

Chatterton. The world and she will love me when 

1 say 

* I am old Rowley — all he wrote is mine ! ' 

\_A wild burst of laughter rises frcnti the street. '\ 

Drunkards carousing at the Old Fox Inn. 

I would their laugh had come less timely, Phillips ; 

For trifles haunt me. 

Phillips. 'Twas but Chance at play. 

Chatterton. Nay, Fate may justly scourge me when I 
claim 
The works of Thomas Rowley. — Do not laugh. 

Phillips. What do you mean ? 

Chatterton. I feel that Rowley lives ! 

Last night I saw him in the moonlight there 
As plain as I see you ; and he was weeping. 
Each crystal tear-drop seemed a little world 
Of sorrow falling from its native sphere. 

Phillips. 'Twas all a dream. 

Chatterton. It may have been, and yet — 

Do you think, Phillips, that the mind can bear 
Real, living spirits never clothed in flesh. 
That act and suffer as we dream they do — 
Making truth fancy and all fancy truth ? 

Phillips. Mind then usurps creative power. 

2 17 



Act I.] XTbe Bar^ of 



Chatterton. Not so : 

God moving on the brain, the heart, the soul — 
The nobler part ; not on this lecherous frame. 
The one you worship, Phillips, was so born. 

Phillips. Such things are past our ken. 

Chatterton. But not our sight : 

And I would swim upon this wave of thought 
Though it bear me to madness. 

Phillips. As you please. 

Chatterton. Will Shakespeare had three children 
scarcely fit 
To run on four legs and to nibble grass : 
Must Hamlet, Portia, Desdemona die 
And his gross offspring live? — 'Tis past belief. 

Phillips. It is not writ that fancy ends with death, 
And, in our fancy, they may live for aye. 

Chatterton. Nay, they must have a separate existence. 
Or heaven is all a dream. What would life be 
With Vicar Catcott paddling o'er the flood 
In search of flotsam from old Noah's ark ; 
Or his fool -brother clambering up a spire ; 
Or Barrett trudging o'er a Roman camp ; 
Or Thistlethwaite, your colleague and my friend, 
A charlatan, a hypocrite, a cur — 

Phillips. And Burgum — 

i8 



/iDarp IRebcliffe* [act i. 

Chatterton. Is her father ; let him pass. 

When I am weary of the things called real, 
I summon Rowley and his phantom crew. 
We catch the shimmering life-lines of the moon, 
Thrown out to drowning souls, and all aboard. 
Sail past the mysteries of endless space. 
Past Jupiter, white as is the god of power 
Enthroned on adamant ; an eagle perched 
Upon his gauntlet, and around him grouped 
The Northern Winds that battle with the Plagues. 
Past silver Mercury, where the god of wit 
Lolls on an emerald seat ; beneath his foot 
A wild hyena laughing, at his back 
An ape that chatters wisdom in his ear. 
Past yellow Saturn, from whose ebon state, 
Infest with scorpions, basilisks, and toads. 
The god of melancholy rules those AVinds 
On which ride Ague, Palsy, and Despair, 
And fell Consumption with her glittering eyes. 
Past ruddy Mars, where on carved jasper sits 
The choleric god in tabard dyed vermilion j 
A vulture on his right, and on his left 
A mastiff and a panther held in leash. 
While frantic Fevers antic near their liege. 
Past Venus, green as is the western sky 

19 



Act I] Zbc BarD ot 



Set with a golden sun ; where rosy nymphs 

Rise from a violet sea, and on a couch 

Of orient ruby lies the goddess, Love, 

Fanned by her swarthy slave, the Southern Wind, 

The pearly tints of morning on her form 

And midnight in her hair. 

Phillips. 'Tis beautiful ! 

Chatterton. Thence to the zenith, past the throne of 
God; 
So close we hear the voices of the angel choir 
And see the face of Christ ! 

Phillips. [Starting to his feet.'] Your words are 
wild ! 

Chatterton. Oh, when I feel an ecstasy like this. 
The world may sink to hell ! — Forgive me, Phillips : 
The moon is full and I am in a frenzy ! 

[Throws his arms about Phillips and bursts into 
tears. 

Phillips. Dear Thomas ! 

Chatterton. Yes, I know : I can not tread 

The star-dust pathway to the Northern Lights, 
Whence truth shines dimly through vast bergs of ice ; 
Nor drink the magic vintage of the night. 
Which spirits vision that o'erwhelms the sense : 
Flesh must have ground and water. 

20 



/iDarp IRcbclittc. [act i. 

\Laughter as if the roisters were leaving the Inn is 
heard and then the sound of voices on the stairs, 

Phillips. They are coming. 

Chatterton. Yes, Burgum and his — 

Phillips. Why, you pale and shake 

As if Saturnian wind swept over you. 

Chatterton. Hope lies with folded wings in white 
cocoon ; 
Then bursts to light, a rainbow-tinted joy, 
With tearful vans that flutter ere they fly. — 
Oh, I shall flush and stammer like a fool ! 
You do not smile : you have a poet's heart. 

[Enter the Sexton, Mrs. Chatterton, and her 
daughter Mary.] 
Mother ! 

Mrs. Chatterton. Do not be attery, Tommy. 

Chatterton. [ Going to her and embracing her.'\ No. 
O mother dear, it seems almost a crime 
For me to love another. 

Mary. [Roguishly.'] Oh, indeed ! 

Chatterton. [Kissing her.] Not you, sweet sister. 

Mary. No, but some one else, 

Or you have changed ; for when you were but six, 
To lure you from the lumber room, we said 
Your little sweetheart, Sukey Webb, was come. 

21 



Act l] ube JSarb ot 



Chatterton. Poor Sukey ! — My mother and my sister, 
Phillips. 
\Phillips bows and the women cottrtesy.'\ 
Receive him, mother, as my trusty friend, 
Most meet to be my dear associate 
In my best moments. He has my Rowley secret. 

Sexton. And my family name. 

Chatterton. Uncle, remember Burgum. 

Sexton. The pewterer had melted in my mind. 

\Exit Sexton. 

Mrs. Chatterton. \_Taking eatables fro7n a basket and 
putti7ig the?n on a coffer , while Mary and Phillips 
converse. '\ 
I've brought you sheep tongues and a pot of tea — 
Alack, the tea is cold ! 

Chatterton. It matters not : 

By gorging I would make myself more dull 
Than God has made me. 

Mrs. Chatterton. You must eat. Tommy. 

Chatterton. Please, mother, call me Thomas or plain 
Tom : 
Think you that Shakespeare ever did permit 
A soul to call him Billy ? 

Mrs. Chatterton. It shall be Thomas. 

Chatterton. For Rowley's sake, not mine. 

22 



/iDar^ IRebcUffe* [act i. 

Mrs. Chatterton. \Handing hi?n a tongue. '\ Now, 
son, eat this. 

Chatterton. Do you know, mother, I could give that 
tongue 
The eloquence of Pitt or make it sing 
Like Chaucer ? — I will eat it by-and-by. [Returns it. 

Phillips. Your sister says you seldom eat. 

Mary. Or sleep. 

Chatterton. I have a queasy stomach ; for I feed 
With Lambert's scullion at the kitchen board. 
And with the footboy lodge, when I am one 
To lie with kings and feel they break my rest. 

Phillips. He is a brute ! 

Chatterton. And you the prince of friends 

To check my vapouring with sympathy 
And not with chiding. 

Mrs. Chatterton. Chiding makes him worse. 

Mary. Both Lambert and his mother treat him 
ill. 

Chatterton. Their day will pass. 

Mrs. Chatterton. And yours will come, my son. 

I well remember when you were a child 
You would not read from out a little book ; 
And in the games you were the master-man 
With all your playmates servants ; once you said, 

23 



Act I.] XTbe 36arb ot 



* Paint me an angel with a trumpet, mother, 
To blow my name throughout the listening world. ' 
Chatterton. Think me not wholly vain and selfish, 
Phillips. 
I feel like a spokesman of a Saxon king, 
With parchment credence bearing royal seal : 
Proud of entrusted power, resolved to gain 
The vantage in the league for my own folk. 

\Puts his arm round his mother. 
Mrs. Chatterton. Selfish ! why, when he toddled by 
my side. 
His tiny fingers holding to my gown, 
He begged for pennies to give beggars, sir. 

Phillips. He is a manly boy, a boyish man ; 
Self-willed, impetuous, full of fire divine. 
And yet, withal, befooled by fools to folly. 

\Footsteps and voices o?i the stairs again are heard, 
and Chatterton shows signs of agitation. 
Mrs. Chatterton. Your words have hurt him, sir. 
Chatterton. No, mother, no : 

He is as kind to me as Joseph was 
To Benjamin. — My guests are coming up. 

Mrs. Chatterton. Then I will make things tidy. 

\Puts the eatables into the basket. 
Mary. Who are they, Tom ? 

24 



fK^avg IRe^clttfe^ [act i. 

Phillips. Miss Burgum and her father. 
Mary. Oh ! 

Sexton, [Arriving on the landing."]^ This way, sir. 
BurguTJi. Whew ! surely I have climbed from hell to 
heaven. 

Enter the ^-Kymo^ followed by Henry Burgum. 
Chatter ton. [To Phillips. ~\ His daughter has not 

come. 
Burgum. \_GrUjjly.'\ Well, Chatterton. 

Chatterton. My mother, sister, Thomas Phillips, sir. 
Burgum. [Scarcely noticing the7?i.~\ My Pedigree is 

finished, eh? 
Chattertoji. It is. 

Burgum. Then let me see it. 

[Chatterton goes to a coffer. 
Mrs. Chatterton. Pleasant evening, sir. 

Bu7gum. You'd say that, madam, had ^olus loosed 
The ventus and sonorus tempestates. 

Phillips. Luctantes ventos tempestatesque sonoras 
Is the line you seek. 

Burgu?n. Well, let it be the line : 

We men of birth leave Latin to our clerks. 

Chatte7'ton. [Returning and giving a manuscript to 
Burgum. "Y 
That is your Pedigree which I have traced 



Act l] Ube 3Sat^ of 



From Simon de Seyncte Lyze, a Norman knight, 
Who came with William First, and then was made 
Earl of Northampton. 

Burgum. Noble to the core ! 

Chatterton. Observe this Patent in the Latin tongue, 
Granting the right to Asheton and Sir Trafford 
To change base metals into precious ones. 

Bu7'gum. That knights my trade ; for I melt tin and 
lead 
To purest pewter. 

Phillips, \To Jkfary.'] A subtle compliment. 

Burgum. \_Reads.~\ ^ Per Artem sive Scientiam Phi- 
losophise.' 
\_The7t with an air of learning. '\ 
Through Art or Science of Philosophy. 
We can translate when we are in the humour. 
\Gla7ices over several pages. '\ 
It is a lengthy Pedigree. — What's this? 
\Reads.'\ ' Radcliff de Chatterton of Chatterton, 
The General Heir of many Families. ' 
You knave ! you put that in to raise yourself. 

Chatterton. Consult the March and Garter Records, 
sir. 

Burgum. To hell with them ! What is that in your 
hand? 

26 



/iDat^ IReDclttfe^ [act i. 

Chatterton. This, sir, is the de Bergham Coat-of- 
arms. 

Biirgu7n. My Coat-of-arms ! — by heaven, it shall be 
graved 
In granite o'er my door. 

Phillips. Like the odd device 

Of Abbot Nailheart o'er the Lower Gateway. 

Burgu7ii. When did he live ? 

Chattei'ton. Three centuries ago. 

Burguin. Only three centuries — an upstart man ! 
Name me the bearings of such royal hues 
On my escutcheon. 

Chatterton. \_Taking the Arms.~\ On this quarter or 
There is a cheeky cross argent and azure 
Between four crosses, sir, pattee — 

Burguui. By God ! 

These blood-red crosses blazon holiness 
In every one of my illustrious sires. 

Phillips. It ended in your father. 

Bur gum. Save your breath 

To pay respect to one of such descent. 

Chatterto7i. An azure field with fess indented argent 
Between three heads of stags cabossed gules 
And armed or. 

Burgum. Most lordly sportsmen all ! 

27 



Act I.] Ube Bar^ of 



Chatterton. Argent, a bend vair or and azure 'tween 
Spears bendwise gules. 

Burgum. You rob my lungs of air ! 

Phillips. Enough is left for swearing, 

Burgum. Hold your tongue ! 

Chatterton. Barry of fourteen pieces purpure, sir, 
And ermine, with chevronel engrailed or, 
Surmounted by another counter-changed. 
Beneath you see inserted in a scroll — 

Enter Bertha with the Sextoit's lanthorn. 

Burgum. \_Noticing Chatterton' s confusion.'^ 
What ails the fool ? 

Chatterton. [Significantly.'] The motto is ' Ryde on ! * 

Burgum. \_To Bertha. '\ What were you doing? 

Bertha. Examining the walls 

That Rowley's hands have touched, the steps of stone 
His weary feet have worn, and, part way up, 
The door that opens to a deadly fall. 

Burgum. You silly girl, here are our Pedigree 
And Coat-of-arms ! 

Flowe7'-Girl. \_Fro77t the street.'] Buy my rosemary, 
buy sweet briar ! Rosemary and sweet briar O ! 
[Sings'] 

Rosemary and briar sweet 
I every day do cry 
28 



ffXSax^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act i. 

Through every square and street ; 
Come buy it sweet, come buy it dry ! 

Rosemary and sweet briar O ! 

[^y f/ie cry is heard, Thistlethwaite steals up the 
stairway, peers into the room, and then goes up 
the steps toward the roof. 
Bertha. \To Chatterton.'] Where are those poems, 

sir ? 
Chatterton. Within that chest. 
Burgum. You shall not look at them ! 

Chatterton. The voice of that belated flower-girl tells 
That rosemary and sweet briar prove a drug 
To hot spice gingerbread. 

Bertha. And soulful songs 

To coats-of-arms. 

Burgum. Damn Rowley and his songs ! 

Chatterton. 'Tis useless, then, for me to tell you, sir, 
That in the Fourteenth century there lived 
One, John de Bergham, who made several books. 
Translated Homer into English verse, 
And wrote this ballad, ' The Romance of the Knight. ' 
Bttrgum. Give me that poem ! What new glory 
next? 
Here is a poet you may love, my girl. 

29 



Act l] ube :©arb of 



l^Takes the parchment and atte?npts to 7'ead //.] 
I should have brought my eye-glass. 

Bertha. \_Looking at it.'\ 'Tis old English. 

Chatterton. [ Taking the parchment and reading. ] 

' The sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten, 
The floureys al arounde onspryngede — ' 

I have the poem modernised at home. 

Burgum. Most beautiful ! superb ! There is a 
crown : 
I patronise the Muse when she appears 
In noble form. \Gives him a crown. 

Bertha. [After again looking at the parchment. "^ 

It does not equal Rowley. 
Burgum. Bah ! Rowley was a monk. But let us go : 
Barrett must see this ere he goes to bed. 
I'll call to-morrow for your version, boy. 
Chatterton. Uncle. 

Sexton. I will attend them to the street. 

Bertha. Good-night to all. 

\Exeunt Sexton^ Burgum^ and Bertha, 
Mrs. Chatterton. That man was so uncivil. 

Phillips. He is an ignorant, presumptuous fellow. 
And swears profanely. 

Mary, True ! 

30 



/IDari? lRet)clttfe* [act i. 

Chatterton. If Burgum roils 

Your placid current, Phillips, think of mine — 
An Avon flood that tides o'er fouling mud 
Past beauteous scenes. — Is Bertha not most fair? 
Phillips. Yes, very fair. 

Mrs. Chatterton. No fairer than my son. 

Phillips. Or daughter, madam. 
Mary. Oh ! 

Chatterton. He is sincere. 

Phillips. \A little embarrassed.'] 
Well, I must go, or I shall be reproved 
By our head-master. 

Chatterton. \_Taking up the seventh candle.] 

Cutts will be our torch. 
Phillips, give Burgum' s crown to that flower-girl. 
Mary. Are you not coming ? 

Chatterton. No further than the porch. 

Phillips. Then I will take your mother to her 
door. 
• Mrs. Chatter toft. You are so thoughtful. 

Chatterton. These steps are treacherous. 

[Exeunt all. Wliile their laughter is heard rising 

from the stairway, Thistlethwaite steals down the 

steps fi'om above the muniment room, hic7'ries to 

one of the coffers, and ransacks it, now and then 

31 



Act l] Ube 36arb of 



stopping to listen. Then he goes from coffer to 
coffer and examines the c out e fits of each. 
Watchman. \From the street. "] Past nine o'clock and 
a moonlight night ! Past nine o'clock and a moon- 
light night! Past nine o'clock and a moonlight 
night ! 

[As the cry grows fainter a?id fainter, Chatter ton, 
with the lighted ca?idle still in his hand, enters the 
room and, running noiselessly to Thistlethwaite , 
seizes hiin by the throat and holds the candle to 
his face. 
Chatterton. You thief ! 

Thistlethwaite. [Struggling. '\ Unhand me ! 
Chatterton. Stealing on your knees ! 

Thistlethwaite. Let loose, I say ! 
Chatterton, Not yet, friend Thistlethwaite. 

Thistlethwaite. Your gripe is strangling me ! 
Chatterton. Best cease to writhe j 

For scuffling ever rouses me to rage, 
And I may hurl you down those steps, you toad. 
And with your venom spatter all the stones. 
Thistlethwaite. What have I done to you ? 
Chatterton. What would you do ? 

Tear from my throat a carcanet of gems 
In pendent sparkles richer than the rays 

32 



/iDar^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act i. 

Of the Golconda brilliant ; and clasp it, too, 
About your scurfy neck. 

Thistlethwaite. It is not yours. 

Chatterton. Take it by law and not by looting, 
then. 

Thistlethwaite. What right have you — 

Chatterton. The right of one who ploughs 

Through unkeeled seas to sunset lands untrod — 
A Cabot's right. 

\_Then forcing him down as he attempts to rise. 
Remain upon your knees ! 
You churchman without charity or grace ; 
You scholar without learning or its trend ; 
You statesman without honesty or depth, 
Cleaning the ponderous shoes of petty men 
To earn a pennyworth of parish power ; 
You flea in both activity and poise. 
Hop on some mangy cur, your proper prey. 
And cease tormenting else. And now begone ! 

\Flings him gasping upon the floor. 

Thistlethwaite. \Rising^ The Vicar shall know all. 

Chatterton. You shall not say 

That I am niggard of this copper race 
Inhabiting my West. Take them for slaves. 
\Takes up a parchment and glances at itJ\ 
3 33 



Act I.] Ube Bar^ of 



This is a Testament that doth bequeath 

A negro boy named Tallow. It comes pat. 

\Throws it to Thistlethwaite a7id takes up another. '\ 

This, a Petition from the Vestry here 

To Bishop Seeker, asking him to grant 

A faculty for one fair organ built 

Without his sanction. 'Twas a sinful past ! 

\_Throws it to Thistlethiuaite and takes up a third. '\ 

This is the Will of Sarah Deane, who leaves 

To her god -daughter one brass kettle pot. 

Her green say apron, and worst little bed ; 

And to her son, in solemn terms of law. 

Her scarlet petticoat with gold galoome 

That he may make a waistcoat of the cloth. 

\Throtvs it to Thistlethwaite. '\ 

But Friendship reckoning when she lends to friend 

Should be by measure paid. Give well, give all ! 

\^Throws ar?nfuls of the parchments over Thistle- 
thwaite. 

Thistlethwaite. You have the Rowley poems under 
bolt. 
And I shall find the key. 

Chatterton. Nay, spare your pains : 

Not all the power of England could unlock 
The coffer of old Rowley's manuscripts ! 

34 



/iDar^ IRe^cllffe^ [act i. 

Enter Bertha. 

Bertha. I thought they still were here. [ Turns io go. 

Chatterton. Oh, do not go ! — 

Wait the departure of this gentleman. 
[ Then as she is about going, he quickly adds. ] 
The passageway is narrow down the steps. 
\_Points to the door, and Thistlethwaite departs. '\ 
He came to filch what I so freely give. 

Bertha. You will call me a robber when you learn 
That, slipping from my father, I have come 
To purloin a Rowley poem. 

Chatterton. Nay, to claim 

What was inspired by you. 

Bertha. By me ? 

Chatterton. Who knows 

But that a soul may love a soul unborn 
And centuries removed? His ^lla loved 
The Saxon maiden. Bertha. 

Bertha. Mystic praise ! 

And my reply, good-night. \Tur7is toward the door. 

Chatterton. Resolve the word 

And say ' Good-death and speed you to your doom ! ' 

Bertha. \_Stoppi?ig.'\ Is that from Rowley ? 

Chatterton. 'Tis a paraphrase. 

Bertha. \Again going.'] Good-bye. 

35 



Act I.] Ube Baxt> ot 



Chatterton. That word spun him a priestly frock, 

As heavenly orbs foretold. 

Bertha. \_Turning.'\ What heavenly orbs ? 

Chatterton. Venus and Saturn were his parent stars ; 
And oft he watched them from the windows here. 
\Goes to the windows and Bertha follows him.'\ 
There's Saturn shining with malefic light 
To blast his babes ; and there is Venus, too, 
In fell conjunction with the jaundiced god. 
As on that natal hour. 

Bertha. Dear Rowley's hour ! 

Chatterton. The horoscope ascendant at his birth 
Was Gemini, with Mercury lord thereof. 
Who gives the stringed shell. 

Bertha. 'Twas well bestowed. 

Chatterton. The Moon, the lady of the second house, 
Was posited malignant in the twelfth. 
The gaol -house of the skies, foreboding want 
And even prison chains ; but Jupiter shone 
From out the pasture of the plunging Bull, 
And dimmed her baleful rays. 

Bertha. Well done, bright star ! 

Chatterton. \Co7ning from the windows. '\ 
The crescent Moon allied the sinking Sun 
In twilight coalition 'gainst the child ; 



/IDar^ IRebclttfe* [act i. 

And from their proper houses rushed the stars 
With steely spears, as if to slay wild boar ; 
But from his laurelled helmet, lightning-proof, 
Their points fell blunt, till Venus hurled her darts, 
Ensteeped in Saturn's bane, and pierced his heart. 

Bertha. Poor, star-crossed bard ! 

Chatter ton. \_Showing her a parchment. '\ 

Here is a swan-like song. 
'Tis yellowed by the feet of pilgrim years 
And wrinkled by the clutch of times profane ; 
Writ in his blood and blurred with burning tears. 

\Covers his face with his hands a?id sinks upon a 
chest. 

Bertha. \Kneeli7ig beside him.'] 
Tell me of him ; and when I read his verse. 
The meaning of his life will mingling flow 
And clear the cloudy lines. 

Chatter ton. The tale is sad : 

His youth was travail ; life in fulness came 
When he beheld her first. 

Bertha. Who was the lady ? 

Chatterton. A maid as beautiful and free from guile 
As roseate baby slumber. 

Bertha. And her name ? 

Chatterton. The name of Ella's love. 

37 



Act I.] Ube Bav^ ot 



Bertha, 'Twas Bertha, then. 

CJiatterto7i. The vision took its christening from the 
real. 

Bertha. He must have loved her well. 

Chatterton. Too well for speech : 

His love uprose like snowdrop in the snow, 
And flowers were its interpreters. 

Bertha. Chaste flowers ! 

Chattertofi. At first he sent her lilacs to unveil 
The purpled birth of passion. 

Bertha. I would have worn 

White hawthorn buds to token purest hope, 

Chatterton. Then lovely speedwells and geraniums wild, 
Plucked on the lofty cliffs whose summits catch 
The nightingale's first ecstasy of song 
As it comes o'er the Avon from Leigh Woods, 
Like blissful voice across the gorge of death. 

Bertha. St. Vincent's Rocks ! 

Chatterton, Then pinks in native cress. 

Heart' s-ease, and rath primroses sprigged with broom ; 
For he was young and humble in his love. 
And then dog-roses in their leaves and thorns, 
Blue periwinkles and their pallid friends, 
The florets of the wind, with sprays of heath, 
The weed of solitude. 

38 



/iDarp 1ReC)clitfe» [act i. 

Bertha. And no response ? 

A scarlet poppy should have decked her hair. 

CJiatterton. Ere summer and the autumn rolled away, 
He sent her marigolds with jasmine buds ; 
The meadow saffron with the bitter-sweet ; 
And in the chilling winter of his heart, 
Garlands of aloe, cypress, and dead leaves. 
With all the blooms denoting love's despair 
Entwined in mystic order ; and at last. 
The plant that whispers in the Spanish tongue 
* I perish, maiden, if you love me not ! ' 

Bertha. Scarlet geranium for her stupid head 
And laurel for his brow ! Did she reply ? 

Chatterton. Her passion, like the laurel, blossomed 
late : 
Her lover, Rowley, had espoused the Church. 

Bertha. She must have loved. 

Chatterton. She was in love with Homer ; 

For he was elder, and he wrote in Greek. 

Bertha. \Rising suddenly and placing her hand on the 
flowers at her breast. '\ You sent these lilacs, sir ! 

Chatterton. \Sinking upon his knee.~\ O lady, hear 1 
Hear one whose pride will bend the knee to naught 
Save Mary Redcliffe, England, and yourself. 

Bertha. What does this mean ? 

39 



Act I.] XTbe :fi5arb ot 



Chatterton. That you are like the maid 

Who wore the fragrant emblems of his love 
Upon her breast, and threw his heart away. 

Bertha. Alas ! what can I do ? 

Chatterton. Wear hedgerow flowers, 

And they shall be as sacred in my thoughts 
As the buds that blow for May-day and for Yule 
On Glastonbury thorn. 

Bertha. I must not stay. 

Chatterton. Nay, drive me not to winter and dead 
leaves. 

Bertha. I much regret — 

Chatterton. Oh, leave me only hope ! 

And you shall find a poet living now 
Who will unstring to none. I am but young, 
A man in song though still a boy in years : 
Let love come flooding in, like moonlight there. 
And I will make the monkish Rowley seem 
A cawing chough beside a spring-tide thrush. 
Yea ! in the summered plenitude of power, 
I will envelop you in golden showers 
Of sparks dilating with celestial fire ! 

Bertha. You frighten me ! Some one is on the steps ! 

[ Voices and footsteps are heard. 

Chatterton. What mortal can oppose the potent stars ? 

40 



/iDar^ 1Re^clitfe♦ [act i. 

'Tis Saturn's work ! I hear them coming up, 
Like those two shuffling knaves in Berkeley Castle 
Who killed an English king. — Be not afraid : 
I shall be commonplace in daylight, lady. 

£nUr ^/le Sexton , Broughton, and Thistlethwaite. 

Broughton. What business have you here ? 

Chatterto7i. Not much nor little. 

Broughton. Miss Burgum, your surprise me. 

Bertha. I confess 

That I was not discreet. 

Chaiterton. The fault is mine : 

I lured the lady with some lays of eld 
Writ by a priestly hand. 

Broughton. Those selfsame lays 

Belong to Mary Redcliffe, not to you. 

Chatterton. O reverend sir, I should reply in wrath, 
Were you not Vicar to the dearest Saint 
In dearest England. 

Broughto7i. You are idolatrous ! 

Chatterto7i. Then lead me from another wilderness : 
Glad me with countenance and counsel, sir. 
And I shall be as open as the skies 
In every thought ; uprear our broken spire, 
Until its gilded vane shall gleam afar 
And guide the future o'er forbidding seas 

41 



Act l] Ube Barb of 



To bless your memory. Pause ere you speak : 
This is my fallow hour. 

Broughton. Your nonsense hour. 

Richard, debar your nephew from this church, 
Or you shall be dismissed. Friend Thistlethwaite, 
We Avill explore these coffers in the morning. 

Thistlethwaite. He may have manuscripts of value 

hid. 
Chatterton. Keep him to silence, or behold a deed 
Loosed from religion and the bonds of love. 

Broughton. Restrain your anger in this holy place. — 
Miss Burgum, I am walking past your house. 
\7'hen taking the lanthorn from the Sexto n.~\ 
Remain behind and see your nephew out. 

\_As Bertha crosses to the door, the lilacs fall from 
her breast. She hesitates for a moment^ a7id then 
hurriedly J oi?is the Vicar on the la?iding. Chat- 
terto7i picks up the lilacs, and, sinking upon a 
coffer, buries his face i?i the flowers. Broughton, 
Bertha, a?id Thistlethwaite go down the steps, 
leaving the Sexton standijig near the door, looking 
with pity at his Jiephew. Then the voices of the 
choir are heard singing the close of the service, 
and Chatterton suddenly raises his head with a 
look of exaltatio7i. 

42 



/iDar^ IRebclttfe. [act i. 

Chatterto7i. The voice of Mary Redcliffe ! 
Sexton. Shall we go ? 

Chatterton. Not for a thousand vicars self-ordained. 
Sexton. We must not linger. 

Chattertofi. Oh, give me to-night : 

Some mystic presence hovers in the air. 

Sexton. Put out the candles, then, lest he detect 
That you have not gone home. 

Chatterton. [After blowifig out all of the candles ex- 
cept the seco7id.'\ Take Catcott, uncle. 
The ark was lighted by the ruddy glow 
Of carbuncles. Good-night. 

Sexton. Good-night, my boy. 

\Exit Sextojt. Chatterton kisses the lilacs, and 
then, going to the coffer at ivhich he iv as first seen, 
takes up a manuscript. 
Chatterton. This Ode to Freedom must be writ by 
dawn. \Reads.'\ 

' Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on, 
Wit skilly whimpled guides it to his crown ; 
His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone ; 
He falls, and falling rolleth thousands down. 
War, gore-faced War, by Envy burled arist, 

His fiery helm ynodding to the air, 
Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist — ' 

43 



Act I.] Ubc JSarD ot 



[Zr<? sfops, runs his fingers through his hair, and then 
walks up and down repeating the last line at in- 
tervals. ] 
' Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist ! ' 
Ah me ! the line hath quite o'erwhelmed my fancy. 
I am worn — a ghostly whisper bids me rest : 
I' 11 sleep. [Rolls up the monk^ s robe for a pillow, and 

lies down upon the coffer in the moonlight. '\ 

When you are ready, Rowley, wake me. 
\As he sinks into slumber, with one hand holding 
the bunch of lilacs falling over the side of the 
chest, the vision of a monk gradually at)pears 
dawning in his dreams. Chatterton moves u?i- 
easily, smiles in his sleep; a7id the curtain slowly 
descends as the choral music dies away. 



44 



ffbaV^ tRC^CUttC. [Act II. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene.— yi?/^;? Lamb erf s house in Bristol. A great oak- 
panelled hall, once the chapel of William Canynge, 
with a less elated pavement and a gallery 7'unning 
along the wall at the right. The high-pitched tifnber 
roofy with central louvre or lanthorn, is supported 
by curved bracing ribs resting on corbels of demi- 
angels bearing shields. At the back, a massive stair- 
case, with quaint newel heads, bases and handrails, 
rises a few steps to a large landing, from which a 
narrow flight of stairs leads to the gallery above. A 
casement of stained glass, in the centre of this land- 
ing, forms an entrance to the garden^ and^ when open, 
discloses trees, the Avon, and part of the city beyond. 
At the right, is an archway or main entrance to the 
hall ; at the left, are a doorway to the pari 02ir and, 
further down, a sculptured mantelpiece representing 
the Judgment of Solomon. Rich rugs are spread 
here and there over the tiles ; a carved oaken table 
and chairs of antique design are near the archway ; 
and near the mantelpiece are a smaller table, several 
chairs, and a curious old settle. Candelabra, law 

45 



Act II.] XTbe ifiSarb ot 



books, and some faded flowers are on the table. At 
the rise of the curtain, the sunlight is streaming in 
many colours through the casement, and the glow from 
a log fire is reddening the lower part of the hall. 
Lambert and his mother, 07ie reading a newspaper 
and the other a book, are seated before the fire. 

Lambert. [Looking upfront his newspaper. '\ 
Well, yesterday that squint-eyed profligate, 
John Wilkes, came out of King's Bench. 

Mj's. Lambert. Who is he, son ? 

Lambert. The publisher of Number Forty -five 
Of the North Briton ; for which he was gaoled 
And expelled from Parliament four several times. 

Mrs. Lambert. Chatterton shouted * Wilkes and Lib- 
erty ! ' 

Lambert. The fool ! — and here are forty-five more 
fools, 
Who purpose dining Thursday at The Crown 
In honour of the demagogue's enlargement. 
The dinner will consist of forty-five 
Large loaves of bread, and forty-five pounds each 
Of beef, of veal, of pork, and roasted pig ; 
With bowls of punch and gallons of old ale 
And papers of tobacco — forty-five. 

46 



^ar^ IRe^clltfe* [act ii. 

Mrs. Lambert. Enough of that : it jars so with these 

sermons. 
Lambert. Here is a letter telling how to treat 
The small-pox to preserve the skin from marks ; 
Written by Mrs. Stewart, Racquet Court, 
Who lived in South Carolina many years. 
Mrs. Lambert, The subject is unpleasant. 
Lambert. This describes 

The Friars passing over the old bridge 
As chronicled in ancient manuscripts. 
Mrs. Lambert. That is of interest. 
Lambert. It is oddly spelled. 

And signed by — Dunhelmus Bristoliensis. 
\Reads.'\ ' On Fridaie M^as the time fixed for passing 
the new brydge. Aboute the time of tollynge the 
tenth clock — ' 

Enter Footboy yawning. 
Footboy. The Reverend Thomas Broughton, sir, is 

here. 
Lambert. Let him come in. [Exit Footboy. 

Mrs. Lambert. Do not subscribe a farthing. 

Lambert. Perhaps he seeks advice. 
Mrs. Lambert. Not at the house. 

Enter Yootboy folloiaed by Broughton ajtd 
Thistlethwaite. 

47 



Act il] XTbc JBatt) of 



La77ibert, [Rising a7id going to the visitor s.'\ 
This is an unexpected pleasure, Vicar. — 
And Mr. Thistlethwaite. 

Bro2ighton. I see you know — 

Lambert. The author of ' The Brilliant Men of 
Bristol,' 
In which my life is traced, is known to all. 

Thistlethwaite. Dear Mr. Lambert, you are overkind ; 
For what I wrote of you and others, sir. 
Is history — not favour. 

Mrs. Lambert. A noble youth ! 

You both are welcome. 

Lambert. Be seated, gentlemen. 

Broughton. I much deplore that such a kindly greeting 
Must usher painful business. 

Lafnbert. Painful business ? 

Broughton. You have, sir, an apprentice, 

La77ibert. Chatterton ! 

Broughton. Who, from the lockless coffers of my 
church, 
Has taken parchments. 

Thistlethwaite. Of historic value. 

Lambert. I'll beat him for the theft ! 

Broughton. \Taki71g a newspaper from his pocket. '\ 

There's an account, 
48 



/iDarp 1Rebclt(fe* [act ii. 

In Felix Farley's Journal of to-day, 

Of how the Friars passed the Bristol bridge. 

Mrs. Lambert. We were about to read it when you 
came. 

Enter Alice, Betty, Dorothy, and Agnes 
with bunches of flowers. 

Alice. Oh, pardon us ! — we thought you were alone ; 
For Sam was sleeping soundly at the door. 

Mrs. Lambert. \Going to them.~\ 
Come in, come in : you all know Mr. Broughton 
And Mr. Thistlethwaite. [^The girls courtesy. 

Betty. We came to bring 

Some Bath buns and some flowers. 

Mrs. Lainbert. Charming girls ! 

Go to the parlour and amuse yourselves 
Till we are through with business. 

Dorothy. May we go 

Into the garden ? 

Mrs. La77ibert. As you wish, my dear ; 

I'll call you soon. 

Dorothy. Oh, do not be in haste. 

\E,xeunt girls laughing into the garden. 

Mrs. Lambert. How sweet to be so loved ! 

Thistlethwaite. I've seen those girls 

Walking with Chatterton in College Green. 
4 49 



Act II.] ube Bat^ ot 



Mrs. Lambert. Why you alarm me : I will warn 
them, sir. 

Lambert. What were you saying, Vicar ? 

Broughto7t. \_Pointing to the newspaper. ~\ This ac- 
count, 
Upon the eve of opening our new bridge, 
Has roused the City Fathers from their sleep, 
And made them hungry with desire to learn 
Who Dunhelmus Bristoliensis is. 

La7nbert. Who can he be ? 

Broiighton. Why, Thomas Chatterton. 

Thistlethwaite. He took the manuscript from Redcliffe 
Church, 
And sent a copy of it to the Journal, 
As we can prove past doubt. He is my friend ; 
And had he stolen a book, a ring, a purse — 
Committed private wrong, I would have held 
My very breath, lest it should form a word 
Of guidance for suspicion ; but to steal 
The sacred relics of the hallowed truth — 
Our rich bequeathment from the ages past, 
The birthright of the future, is a crime 
My love for history can not connive. 

Mrs. La77ibert. Arrest him at the office, not the 
house. 

50 



/n>ar^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act ii. 

Brmighton. At neither place, if he return the parch- 
ments. 
Lambert. He shall not 'scape a flogging. 
Broughton. Be not rash : 

Send for his mother and appeal to her ; 
For he is tempered like a sword of fire. 
Meanwhile, friend Thistlethwaite and I will go 
To Redcliffe Church and search the coffers there. 
Come, Thistlethwaite. 

Lambert. I'll show you to the door. 

Mrs. Lambert. And I will get those loving girls some 
cider. 

\Mrs, Lambert goes into the parlour, and the others 
go out by the main entra7ice. Then the girls, who 
have been peeping ifito the hall, enter from the 
gardeji, leaving the caseme7it open. 
Dorothy. Where can he be ? 

Alice. He was not at the window. 

Betty. I saw him come to dinner. 
Agnes. \_/n a whisper. '\ There he is. 

Enter Chatterton who comes slowly down the stair- 
case. 
Alice. What is the matter, poet ? 
Chatterton. \L00ki71g up.~\ Ah, my dears ! 

Alice. Your cheeks are very pale. 

51 



Act II.] Ube Bar5 ot 



Chatterton. Bleached by the moon, 

Which steals the pigment from the poet's face 
And lends it to his verse. 

Betty. What pretty words ! 

Chatterton. I saw you in the garden, and have 
brought 
An answer to your ode. 

Dorothy, Is our ode good ? 

Chatterton. Each line's a cripple with a perfect soul. 
I fear the Muse, too envious of your beauty, 
Refused to grant you aid. Here's my reply ; 
'Tis called 'The Constant Lover,' and is worth 
A hundred kisses. 

Betty. We will buy it then. 

Chatterton . \Reads. ] 

Lady dearest, why tax me 
With the sin inconstancy ? 
That I ever am in love 
Your laments, fair lady, prove. 
Giving you o'erflovving measure, 
Still is left such boundless treasure, 
Ever have I love to spare 
For a damsel debonair. 



Alice. Call you this constancy ? 

52 



/iDarp IRebcliffe* [act ii. 

Chatterto7i. I do forsooth : 

Not to Love's object,' but to Love, my dear. 

\Reads. ] 

Were I cold to beauty's grace, 
Slight I might your matchless face : 
It is only by compare 
Lovers learn to rate the rare. 
'Tis by use we make life longer 
And the tender passion stronger ; 
So I dally with a score 
That I may adore you more. 

Alice. Indeed ! 

Chatterton. Emotions thrive by exercise. 

\Reads.'\ 

Life is love and death is hating ; 
Loving one is selfish mating ; 
Lovers' vows are ropes of snow 
Melting in an amorous glow : 
Bind my nature as I will, 
Cupid is its master still. 
Lady mine, then cease lamenting, 
For my future' s past repenting. 

Alice. Is it for me ? 
Dorothy, For me ? 

Agnes, For me ? 

Betty, For me ? 

53 



Act II.] Zbc JBarb ot 



Chatterton. There's Solomon upon the mantelpiece; 
Two women claim the child ; a soldier stands 
With naked sword to cut the boy in two : 
Which one of you will yield this baby whole ? 
Alice. I will not yield ! 
Betty. Nor I ! 

Agnes. Nor I ! 

Dorothy. Nor I ! 

Chatterton. \_After a pause in whicJi he acts non- 
plussed. ] 
Quarter the infant, Captain of the Guard ! 

\Tears the mafiuscript into four parts. 
All. No, no ! 

Chattertofi. 'Tis just ; for all may read or none ; 

And each one shares the offspring of my brain 
As each divides my heart. 

[^Throws the pieces fluttering among them. 
Enter Mrs. LAMBERT/r^^w the parlour. 
Mrs. Lambert. My innocents ! 

What are you picking up ? 

Chatterton. Mere wanton words 

That scratch their names upon the tomb of Time. 

Mrs. Lambert. That's meaningless and surely means 
a poem. 
And here's another found upon your desk. 

54 



/iDar^ 1Re^clItfe♦ [act ii. 

There is your stuff ! [ Tears up a paper and throws the 
pieces in his face. '\ Come, girls, into the parlour. 
\Exeu7it all except Chatterton, who stands motion- 
less till they are gone. 
Chatterton. Whom has the vandal slaughtered ? {^Ex- 
amines the bits of paper on the floor and reads'] 

'Elegy.' 
Knowing my wealth of thought, I spend too freely : 
I'll gather the remains. 

Enter Bertha. 
Bertha. 'Tis well you're here. 

Chatterton. 'Tis well's superlative repeated thrice ! 
Your visitation makes this bed of pain 
Lie soft as downy eider's nest. 

Bertha. No more : 

Our bond is Rowley — do not sever it. 
The Catcotts, Broughton, Barrett, and my father 
Are now upon the steps in earnest speech 
About an article that has appeared — 
Chatterton. The passing of the bridge ? 
Bertha. Yes, that is it ; 

And threats of process and arrest are made 
Against you, sir, unless you make return. 
Chatterto7i. And you would warn me ? 
Bertha. Yes. 

55 



Act il] XTbc Batb ot 



Chatterton. May they be blessed 

For giving you occasion. — Not a scrap 
Of priceless parchment shall they wrest from me. 
Bertha. Be wary, sir ; for they are very wroth. 
Chatterton. No boyish muscles ply within these arms ; 
And with those magic darts of gold and lead 
That quicken love and hatred, I defy 
Jove's thunderbolts in livid lightning forged ; 
Much more these harpies. I am full of fight ! 
Bertha. Be not incensed. 

Chatterton. 'Twas but a tidal wave 

Of briny anger roaring through my veins 
Like Severn's eagre. \yoiccs heard from without. '\ 

I will wait them here. 
Bertha. I do beseech you, go ! 
Chatterton. Rome was well sold 

By Antony. — I shall obey you, lady. 

\Chatterton goes up the staircase a?id Bertha sits 
down by the fireplace as Bur gum and George Cat- 
cott enter followed by Lambert. Barrett^ and Alex- 
ander Catcott. 
Burgum. No, Catcott, no : my aidance I refuse. 
First let me get my Pedigree complete, 
With every poem of my songful sires, 
Then hale the boy to gaol. 

S6 



ifbat^ 1Ret)cltffe. [act ii. 

Barrett. Your Pedigree ? 

Of more concern are parchments he withholds : 
'Turgo's Account of Bristol,' 'England's Glory,' 
' The Ancient Form of Monies, ' views unique 
Of castles, churches, chapels, Saxon gates — 
All vital to my book. 

Alexander Catcoit. And what are these, 

Friend Barrett, to the things he may have found 
That prove the Noachian Deluge ? for the works 
Of Ovid, Lucian, Plutarch, and Berosus, 
Though heathen writings, testify the flood 
O'er this terraqueous globe. 

Bej'fha. And bear in mind 

That harshness may blot Rowley from the roll. 

Barrett. That's very true ; for I have heard him say 
That he had poems worth their weight in gold 
The world must beg or lose ; and as he spoke 
His eyes struck fire, and kindled, and blazed up 
Most wonderful ! 

La77ibert. How shall we tame the whelp ? 

Alexander Catcott. Let us consider : can you prove 
the theft ? 

Lambert. Past doubt. 

Alexander Catcott. By whom ? 

Lambert. By Thistlethwaite. 

57 



Act II.] xLbc JSarb of 



George Catcott. The youth 

That in The Glocester Journal did recount 
My climbing Nicholas' spire ? He would not lie. 

Barrett. He wrote my life. 

George Catcott. And mine. 

Lambert. And mine. 

Alexander Catcott. And mine. 

Burgum. And also mine : he has discrimination. 

Lambert. And wit and eloquence ; for he declaims 
On every topic from the birth of light 
To doomsday darkness. 

George Catcott. And he does it well : 

His words flow out like oil. 

Bertha. And oil-like float 

Upon the surface of each theme : he is 
Too flaunting of his learning to be learned. 

Burgum. Hush, daughter, hush ! 

Alexander Catcott. Nay, now I do recall 

No Greek is taught within the Colston School, 
Which Thistlethwaite attended ; yet, forsooth, 
He rants about Euripides, nor knows 
That Beta follows Alpha in the list. 

George Catcott. His sensitive corn — the Greek ! 

Bertha. Euripides, 

Tradition says, was killed by a pack of hounds. 

58 



/iDar^ 1Ret)cliffe^ [act ii. 

Alexander Catcott. What are we to infer ? 

Bertha. The hounds fed high. 

Burgum. Another word, and I will send you home. 

Bertha. You gag and blindfold Justice in your court, 
And then pronounce a sentence in her name. 

Alexander Catcott. \_Restraining Burgmn with a ges- 
ture.^ 
You shall be heard : speak fair solicitor. 

Bertha. \Rising in the red glow of the fire as Chatter- 
to?!, with breast heaving and eyes dilating^ appears 
iji the gallery above. ] 
My father will bear witness that till now 
I lacked the froward spirit to o'erstep 
A maidenly reserve ; but truth at times 
Is carried by a single trembling string 
That knows not why it vibrates : hear me, then, 
As one o'ershadowed by a holy cause ; 
For, by my mother's memory, I speak truth. 

Alexafider Catcott. They all shall listen or be in con- 
tempt. 

Bertha. What is the accusation ? — that a youth, 
With swift discernment where you all were lag, 
Has taken parchments from abandoned chests 
And saved them to the world. 

Alexander Catcott. But theft is theft. 

59 



Act IL] TLM BatD Ot 



Bertha. Between the upright letters of your words 
I see a monster glaring : what you brand 
Is that he robbed you of the homage due 
The bold explorer of a buried age, 
Who brings its art and learning to the light — 
Adding a page to knowledge : yea, restores 
What Time has smuggled ; and you call him thief ! 

Lambert. He keeps the originals unlawfully : 
'Tis larceny as bailee. 

Bertha. Because you chill 

A nature warm as are the springs of Bath 
Bubbling from Roman ruins ; lave in it. 
And sluice it through base channels till it 'scapes 
Adown the Avon to the lustral sea. 
And who is his accuser ? — one that shows 
Too eager to wreak justice to be just : 
Himself a thief. 

Lambert. Such words are slanderous ! 

Bertha. Then you wrought wilful slander. Yester 
night. 
Within the muniment room of Redcliffe Church, 
The glib and slippery Thistlethwaite was caught 
Rifling the sacred coffers. 

Lambert. Your witness, girl ! 

Bertha. One who was there — myself. 

60 



^ar^ 1Ret)cliffe» [act ii. 

Burgui7i, [Starting up."] How came you there ? 

Bertha. I am not now on trial : 'tis enough 
That what I vouch is true. 

Barrett. May be he sought 

To save them for the Vestry. 

Bertha. Give may-bes scope, 

And whom can you convict ? — not Chatterton. 
Oh, how you rush from reason to reprieve 
An oily rogue because he flatters you : 
Loves Barrett's history and Lambert's law, 
The Vicar's corals, sea -shells, bones, and teeth, 
That tell the Mosaic story of the flood ; 
Notes each adventure of his brother George ; 
And writes your lives with scarce a censor-word 
To give laudation credence. Are you blind? 
You seek the earthly paradise of fame. 
Where deeds immortal chant the doer's praise. 
And fly your only guide — the one that raised 
Old Rowley from the grave. He does not time 
The quick pulsation of his fevered words. 
For worth is haughty when it is disprized ; 
And he is young — so young that I can plead 
As if he were my brother. You may change 
His golden locks to snakes, his teeth to tusks, 
His glorious eyes to blood-shot orbs of pain, 

6i 



Act II.] XTbe Bart) ot 



And make death welcome ; but beware his scorn, 
For it hath power to turn you into stone, 
The mock of ages ! — I can say no more. 

[Bursts into tears and hurries through the casement 
into the garden as Chatterton, trembling with emo- 
tion, disappears from the gallery. 

Alexander Catcott. Her flail threshed out some com. 

Burgum. By God, 'twas great ! 

Into the horse-pond went the Vicar first, 
Like some old toper toppling from the ark ; 
Next came the lawyer sprawling in the mud ; 
And then the surgeon and the pewterer 
With those of lesser trades ; and all emerged 
Like cattle I have seen on rainy days 
Tied to St. Thomas' Church. [Laiighs uproariously and 

flourishes his Pedigree."] It was the blood 

Of John de Bergham speaking on her tongue 
From out the silent past. Had I but known 
Such eloquence was mine by right of birth, 
I would have stood in Parliament ere this 
And been the mouth of England. 

Lambert. [Sarcastically .] Have a care, 

Friend Burgum, lest your grandchild find. 
Amid the knightly charges on his shield, 
An inkhorn and a goose-quill. 

62 




». ^ ,*>%<^ 






STECP Sf 



/iDar^ IRebclltfe* [act ii. 

Barrett. And enscrolled, 

In scrivener's script, * Write on ! ' 

Burgum. Write on ? write what ? 

My motto, sir, is * Ride on. ' 

Barrett. Best dismount ; 

For you are at the top of Steep Street now. 
And your high barb may stumble. 

Burgum. Is that sense? 

Lambert. To echo John de Bergham, are you blind ? 

Burgum. You both are riddlers. 

Alexander Catcott. I will be more clear. 

If these old ears have not forgot a voice 
That trembled in their portals years agone. 
There spake upon the lady's silvery tongue 
A nobler spirit than your Norman sire — 
Divinely- fathered Love. 

Burgum. \l7t a?tger.~\ She loves him not ! 

I have it from her lips. 

Alexander Catcott. I've heard it said 

Love laughs at lovers' lies, as well as locks. 
And angels ne'er record them. 

Burgum. It is false ! 

Lambert. Yet from her tale we might infer a tryst 
Within the muniment room ; perhaps to plan 
Continuance of your line. 

63 



Act II.] ube Barb of 



Burgum. I say 'tis false ! 

She is contract to Rowley, that damned monk 
Who wrote erotic verse. 

Alexander Catcott. More cause for fear : 

When Cupid and Calliope are leagued, 
A maiden's heart needs more than Bristowe's wall 
To check the Cavaliers. 

George Catcott. She praised his eyes. 

Alexander Catcott. Ah, so she did; and that's de- 
notement sure 
That they have darted wildfire through her own 
Upon her bosom's keep, and tinded flames 
The blissful tears of budding maidenhood 
Can not extinguish. 

Burgimi. Damn his eyes and yours ! 

She loves him not ! I say she loves him not ! 

Alexander Catcott. But women learn to love what 
they protect : 
'Tis childless motherhood. 

Burgum. [ Walking up and down in a rage.'j 

She loves him not ! 

Lambert. Has John de Bergham aged to iterance ? 

Burgimi. [Pausing and shaking his finger at La7?i- 
bert.'\ 
By heaven ! I'd see you and your prentice burnt, 

64 



jflDar^ IRebcltfte^ [act il 

Like Sharp and Hales, upon St. Michael's Hill, 
Ere blood of his should mingle with my own. 

Barrett. Does not your Pedigree proclaim him heir 
To Radcliff de Chatterton of Chatterton ? \_They laugh. 

Alexander Catcott. Enough of this bear-baiting. 

Bur gum. [ With a forced laugh. '\ Aptly put : 

Old Bruin worried by some mongrel dogs ! 
Enter Footboy. 

Lai7ibert. Well? 

Footboy. Mr. Horace Walpole — 

Lambert. \_Tn amazement. '\ Horace what? 

Footboy. He says his name is Walpole. SJ^awns. 

Lambert. Are you sure ? — 

You drowsy dolt, you are not half awake. 

Footboy. I must sleep day-time, sir, or never sleep ; 
For Thomas writes all night. 

Lambert. Well, show him in. \_Exit Footboy. 

The son of England's former Minister 
Seeks legal counsel. 

Alexander Catcott. Or my fossils, sir. 

Barrett. I sent him a prospectus of my book ; 
But we shall learn what magnet draws him here. 

Burgum. [ Waving his Pedigree. ~\ 
Perhaps I hold the magnet in my hand. 

Enter Yoot'boy followed by Horace Walpole. 
5 65 



Act II.] Ube Bar^ of 



Lambert. [Rising and going to him.'\ 
Welcome to Bristol, most distinguished sir ! 
Walpole. This, then, is Mr. — 
Lambert. Lambert. 

Walpole. \_Fuzzled.'] Lambert? — yes. 

Lambert. Let me present to you my worthy friends : 
The Reverend Alexander Catcott, sir. 
Vicar of Temple Church and author of 
A Treatise on the Deluge ; William Barrett, 
The surgeon and historian of Bristol ; 
George Catcott, who ascended Nicholas' steeple 
And left his name beneath the topmost stone ; 
And Henry Burgum, sir, whose Pedigree — 

Burgum. Whose Pedigree runs parallel with yours ; 
For both the founders of our families, sir. 
Came over with the Duke of Normandy. 

Walpole. England owes much and many to his 

Grace. 
Burgum, I'll call my daughter in. 

\_Hurries into the garden. 
Walpole. I came from Bath 

This morning in the coach. 

Lambert. Sit near the fire : 

The day is chilly, and you are fatigued. 

Walpole. I am not, sir, epuise with the jaunt 

66 



/iDari^ IRe^clitte* [act ii. 

From Bath to Bristol, for the air was bracing ; 

But my eyes are Ghebers in their love for flames. — 

You know, I fancy, why I trespass here. 

Lambert, \_With assurance.^ Entanglement in law? 

Walpole. Lord bless you, no ! 

Alexander Catcott. Were it not too presumptuous, I 
might ask 
Whether your journey, honoured sir, is due 
To interest in the Deluge ? 

Walpole. Deluge, sir? 

I drink iced water — there my interest ends. 

Barrett. [ With an air of confidence. ] 
It is more likely, Vicar, that a wit, 
A man of letters, patron of the arts — 

Walpole. I beg your pardon : I am none of these. 
Enter Burgum and Bertha. 

Burgum. My daughter, Mr. Walpole — Horace Wal- 
pole. 

Walpole. [Looking with evident admiration and tlien 
bowing. '\ 
The fashion is too formal to express 
My pleasure at this meeting. 

Bertha. Thank you, sir. 

Burgum. Is she not truly Norman? 

Bertha, \E7nbarrassed.'\ Father, please. 

67 



Act II] U\)C Batt) Of 



Walpole, Her gentle breeding shows in delicate veins, 
Like azure current branching through the snow. 

La7?ibert. [ With slight irritatio7t.~\ 
M^'e are agog to serve you, Mr. Walpole. 

Walpole. My mission had quite faded in the light 
Of sudden fortune : I am like a man 
Who, stooping for a stone to hurl in sport. 
Finds in his path a cloud-begotten pearl. 

\AIakes a bow to Be7'tha, which Chatterton observes 
as, hat in hand, he comes doivn the staircase. 

Bu7'gum. A second John De Bergham in the flesh ! 

Walpole. A curious manuscript was sent to me 
By some old antiquary — Chatterton. 

AIL Chatterton ! 

\_Chatterton stops as his na?ne is pronounced and 
leans on a 7iewel head. 

Walpole. \_To La77ibert.'\ A relative of yours, perhaps. 

Lai7ibert. A relative ? — my bound apprentice, sir ; 
And there he stands. \_All tur7i a7id look at Chatterton. 

Walpole. \JR.isingP^ That boy ? — you surely jest. 

Chatterton . [ Co7ning down. ] 
What matter that I am not free and old ? 
The purest pearl upon Spain's tawny breast 
Was found by a negro child. 

Walpole. \Haughtily .'\ I must refuse — 

63 



/IDar^ 1Re^cUtEe. [act ii. 

Bertha. Will you not listen ? 

Walpole. \_B owing graciously .^ If you so request. 

Chatterto7i. You prate of pearls ; I have tlie flawless 
stones 
That flamed upon the breast-plate of a priest : 
A sardius glowing like the setting sun, 
Firing the soul and banishing all fear ; 
A topaz from the alabaster mines 
Of Jove's great city, quickening every sense; 
A Burmah ruby ripened in the earth, 
Clouding its lustre at approach of ill, 
And gleaming crimson in the murkiest night ; 
An Emerald flashing like the lightning's play 
Among green olive trees ; a saphire star ; 
A Brahmin-diamond lucid as the dew. 
Refulgent as the rays of orient sun. 
And cool as evening tempered by the moon \ 
A ligure brilliant as the eye of lynx ; 
An agate, like the memory, holding aye 
The imaged beauty of a woodland scene ; 
An amethyst that quells the god of wine ; 
A beryl from Egyptian mummy-pit, 
Wearing the verdant livery of the sea ; 
An onyx from the finger-tip of Love ; 
And last a jasper with these dazzling gems ; 

69 



Act II.] Zhc 3Bar& ot 



Each catching fire and colour from the rest ; 
All ranged by fiat in four tribal rows, 
And set in gold in their enclosings, sir. — 
Contest another figure, if you please. 

Walpole. A span of tinsel — not a word of sense ! 

Chatterton. I borrowed words from Exodus. 

Walpole. They began 

' All ranged by fiat — ' 

Chatterto?i. No, those words were mine. 

Shall I close up my casket and depart, 
Or will you view one jewel ? 

Bertha. \_Eagerly.'\ Show him one. 

Chatterto7i. \Taking a manuscript from his pocket. '\ 
This is the Ode to Freedom Rowley wrote ; 
'Tis from his Tragedy of ' Godwin,' sir. 
\Reads.'\ 

When Freedom, drest in blood-stained vest, 

To every knight her war-song sung. 
Upon her head wild weeds were spread, 
A gory anlace by her hung. 
She danced on the heath ; 
She heard the voice of Death. 

Bertha. \_To Walpole.'] Is that not masterful ? 
Walpole. No modern bard — 

Not even Gray — could paint so weird a picture. 

70 



/iDari^ IRe^clttfe^ [act ii. 

Burgum. You must read Bergham's 'The Romance 

of the Knight. ' 
Alexander Catcott. 'Tis like a ballad-dance in ancient 

Greece, 
Where motion, words, and music blend like flames. 
Chatterton. \Reading with a strange smile. ^ 

Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, 
In vain assailed her bosom to acale — 

Walpole. Acale ? I do not know the word. 
Chatterton. \_Rebukingly.~\ To chill ! 

Burgum. De Bergham wrote much harder words than 

that. 
Chatterton. \Continuing his reading.'] 

Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, 

In vain assailed her bosom to acale ; 
She heard onflemed the shrieking voice of Woe 
And sadness in the owlet shake the dale. 
She shook her burled spear. 

On high she jeste her shield ; 
Her foemen all appear. 
And flizz along the field. 

Walpole. 'Tis well sustained. 

Bertha. And will be to the close. 

71 



Act II.] zbc BarD ot 



Chattertoji. \Reading with increased force. '\ 

Power with his heafod straught into the skies, 
His spear a sunbeam and his shield a star, 
AHke twa brendyng gronfyres rolls his eyes, 
Chafts with his iron feet and sounds to war. 
She sits upon a rock, 

She bends before his spear. 
She rises from the shock 
Wielding her own in air ! 

Walpole. The bard has reached his pitch and he must 

stoop ! 
Bertha. He will not stoop — he'll stop ere he will 

stoop ! 
Chatterto7i. \_Almost in a frenzy. "^ 

Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on ; 

Wit skilly wimpled guides it to his crown ; 
His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone ; 
He falls, and falling rolleth thousands down. 
War, gore-faced War, by Envy burled arist. 

His fiery helm ynodding to the air. 
Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist — 

Walpole. Magnificent ! Read on ! 
Alexander Catcott. Read on ! 

Bertha. Read on ! 

72 



/ll>ar^ IRebcUtfe^ [act ii. 

Chatterton. I've read it all : the line o'erwhelmed 
his fancy. 

Walpole. You well may call it jewel ; for it glows 
Like moon new-risen on a battlefield. 

Chatterton. Or like the blood -red ruby Harry wore 
Upon his crest at Agincourt. 

Walpolc. Enough ! 

Chatterton. Rub it with ruby tried ; and if it break, 
It is a garnet coloured like a bull 
And set with copper foil. 

Bertha. It will not break. 

Barrett. ' The Battle of Hastings ' is a livelier stone. 

Bertha. That's Rowley's, too ! 

Walpole. This gem can not be matched. 

Alexander Catcott. Save by the Greeks. 

Burgwn. And John de Bergham, sir. 

Walpole. Why did you write to me ? 

Chatterton. Think not I seek 

To fatten you for food with flattery. 
You are a gentleman reputed wise, 
And have a private press at Strawberry Hill : 
If Rowley's poems please you, publish them; 
If not, the Hotwells will repay your ride. 

\Laughter of girls heard from the parlour. 
Enter Footboy excitedly. 

73 



Act il] TTbc Barb of 



Footboy. It is the Mayor — Thomas Harris, sir ! 

Lambert. What if it were the King, you Bedlamite ? 
Enter the Mayor. 

Mayor. I am informal, for I am in haste : 
The Corporation dine me at The Bush, 
And it is famous for its turtle soup. 

Lambert. You can not come too soon or stay too long. 
Most honoured sir. 

Mayor. That's what the landlords say. 

JFootboy. \_After drawing atfe7ition by eyeing the Mayor 
admiringly^ He looks like Stephens ' the nailer ! ' 

Lambert. Out, you fool ! 

And do not show your face again this day. 

\_Exit Footboy. 
Perhaps, dear sir, you came to meet my guest, 
Who will be glad — 

Mayor. I've met him or shall miss him ; 

I must divulge my mission and away. 

Lambert. If you have need of pilot in the law, 
The honour in your service is my fee. 

Mayor. Do you know Thomas Chatterton ? 

Lambert. \In anger. '\ Again ! 

Mayor. Bright said he thought he was your partner, 
sir. 

Lambert. He is my prentice, and is smiling there. 

74 



/iDat^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act ii. 



Mayor. \_To Lainbert after staring at Chatterton.~\ 
The time for joking is at table, sir, 
Where tipple wets dry wit : 'tis foul to ask 
A sober man to laugh at silly sallies. 

Lambert. No other Chatterton is known to me. 

Mayor. \_Beckomiig to Chatterton. '\ Come here; 
come here ! 
\Chatterton looks up the staircase. ~\ What are you look' 
ing for ? 

Chatterton. Your poodle, sir. 

Lambe7't. This insolence must cease. 

Mayor. Do you write verse for Felix Farley's Jour- 
nal? 

Chatterton. Some vagrant lines. 

Mayor. The penmanship's the same ! — 

Did you describe a grand procession formed 
To celebrate the birth of Bristol's bridge? 

Chatterton. I fathered it. 

Mayor. Then you're the one I seek. 

The Aldermen, the Councillors, and — Mayor, 
In hasty convocation, have decreed 
To open our new bridge the selfsame way. 

Chatterton. Well, they have my assent. 

Mayor. [ Taking out a newspaper. ] You saucy boy ! 
Do you know more than you have here set down ? 

75 



Act II.] Zbc JBax^ ot 



Chatterton. Like creamy Cheddar, sir, I sell the curd 
And keep the whey of thought. — A little more. 

Mayor. Then meet me at my house to-morrow noon 
In St. Augustine's back. 

Chatterton. I shall be there. 

Mayor. We must have trappings, minstrels, rod, and 
all, 
As in that bygone age : 'twill be sublime ! — 
And now for dinner with the turtle soup. 

Enter Broughton and Thistlethwaite. 

Broughton. This is a timely meeting, Master Mayor : 
We have discovered what will interest you 
And many sitting here. 

Mayor. You must be brief: 

The tables groan, and I am tender-hearted. 

\Rubs his stomach. 

Broughton. [ To Chatterton who ttirns scortifully away. ] 
You must not go — you are the one accused. 

Chatterton. \_Turmng.~\ Accused of what ? 

Broughton. Of many things in one. 

Chatterton. Heigh-ho, up we go ! we'll have a scene 
in court. 

BroughtoJi. Now, Thistlethwaite, begin. 

Thistlethwaite. It grieves me much 

To expose a friend. 

76 



/Iftar^ 1Re^clttfe♦ [act ii. 



Chatterton. Observe the ugly mouth 

Of that fellow with a lisp within his name. 
Could anything as beautiful as Truth 
Issue from such a pit ? — Present your case. 

Thistlethivaite. To prove wrong-doing is to anger 
guilt ; 
But I am so reluctant in my duty, 
That taunts bestir compassion. Facts will speak ; 
Nor shall they be enforced by word of mine. 
I do affirm, and am prepared to prove. 
That all of Thomas Rowley's works were writ 
By Thomas Chatterton. \_Ge7ieral consternation. 

Chatterton. [_Ca/m/y.'] Produce your proof. 

Thistlethwaite. \After taki?ig a piece of ochre, a 
pounce-box, a bottle, and a parchment from a 
satchel.'] 
Here are the ochre, lead, and charcoal used 
For forging those antiques in Redcliffe Church ; 
And here's * A Song to JElla ' partly aged. — 
What say you, Rowley, to this evidence ? 

Chatterton. You can not prove a calf leaped o'er a bam 
By leading out the calf : show us the leap. 

Thistlethwaite. \_Triiiniphantly turning to the others 
who are talking and gesticulating wildly."] 
And what say you, my friends ? 

77 



Act II.] TLbc BarD ot 



Barrett. You are a fool ! 

Burgum. A lunatic at large ! 

George Catcott. A drivelling dunce ! 

Walpole. A knave without the cunning to conceal 
His native baldness with attorney's wig, 
Who fain would foist a fairy tale on me. 

Thistlethwaite. My motive, sir, was honest, be assured. 

Walpole. Write Rowley's works? — absurd ! 

Burgum. Preposterous ! 

Barrett. Write Rowley's works — write Chaucer's 
tales ! 
Were he to swear it I should swear he lied. 
'Twould prove my book a hoax — it would, by God ! 

Alexander Catcott. The boy has rarest genius j mark 
you that. 

Barrett. He may have made the Burgum Pedigree. 

Burgum. \^Ju7npmg to his feet. '\ 
The Burgum Pedigree ? — you quacking goose ! 
\Then turning to Thistlethwaite.~\ 
And you — you braying colt of some wild ass ! 
Make of your skull a fishing-pot for eels. 
The Heralds' College shall attest my birth. 

Mayor. \Holding up the newspaper as the situation 
daw7is on him ] Does he allege that Chatterton 
wrote this? 

78 



/iDar^ IRebclttfe* [act ii. 

[^B arret f nods assent. ] 

By currant dumplings and a bit of hash, 

I'll clap him in the madhouse for his speech ! 

Lambert. Vicar, I marvel that yourself believed 
In such a fable. 

Broughton. I had not read the works. 

\Then to Chatterton.'] 
What purpose did the lead and ochre serve ? 

Chatterton. To overpaint the damning bloom of 
youth : 
To give my skin the parchment hue of age 
And mark deep wrinkles, sir. If not for that, 
Make your surmise : we are not now in France 
Where the accused must work his own undoing. 

Bertha. He may have used them to make copies, sir. 

Burgiim. That's true, my girl. 

Walpole. 'Tis sure : a woman's wit 

Has solved the puzzle. 

Broughton. \To Thistlethwaite.'\ Make the graver 
charge. 

Thistlethwaite. [ Taking a manuscript from the satchel. ] 
This document was found within a coffer. 

Broughton. \To Chatterton who smile s.'\ 
You deem it droll ; but 'tis as libellous 
As Number Forty-five that gaoled John Wilkes. 

79 



Act II.] Zbc BarD ot 



\_£n^er from the parlour Mrs. Lambert and the 
girls laughing, Lambert motions to them not to 
interrupt the reading. 
Thistlethwaite. [Reads . ] 

This is the latest Will and Testament 
Of Thomas Chatterton whose life is spent. 

Lambert. What can a pauper leave ? 

Chatterton. His body, sir. 

Thistlethwaite. \_Reading. ] 

Written in great distress, but not in fear, 
This fourteenth day of April, the tenth year 
Of George the Third, our wooden-headed king, 
Who to the bagpipes foots the Highland Fling. 

Barrett. Treason I 

George Catcott. Were this disclosed, he would be 

hanged ! 
Thistlethwaite. \_Reading.'\ 

To Thomas Broughton I bequeath my eyes. 
That see the figured truth in literal lies — 
Damned narrow notions tending to disgrace 
The boasted reason of the human race. 

\All except Broughton laugh. 
Broughton. Profane and blasphemous ! 

80 



/iDar^ 1Re^cllffe♦ [act ii. 

Alexander Caicott. \S7niling.'\ Not that, if true. 

Thistlethwaite. \_Reading. ] 

To Vicar Catcott, all my bones and blood, 
To fill his cabinet and to swell his flood ; 
And to his cat-like brother, my toe-nails, 
That he may climb until his courage fails. 

\_All except the Catcotts and Broughton laugh. 
Alexander Catcott. 'Tis sinful to scoff the Deluge. 
George Catcott. Or my climb. 

Thistlethwaite. \_Reading.'\ 

To William Barrett I bequeath my brain — 
The primal part of it when split in twain — 
That he on printing may not waste his cash ; 
For, save what Rowley wrote, his book is trash. 

\All except Barrett J the Catcotts ^ a7id Broughton laugh. 
Barrett. The snarling cur ! to call my history trash, 
And flatter Rowley. Curse his impudence ! 
Thistlethwaite. \jR.eading.~\ 

To harsh John Lambert I assign my liver. 

To cleanse the bilious blood that wronged the giver. 

Lambert. A viper I have warmed upon my breast ! 
Thistlethwaite. \_Reading.'\ 
6 8i 



Act II.] Zbc Bar^ of 



To Thistlethwaite I leave my candid tongue, 
Which sings unwisely, but has never sung 
A whining psalm to sanctify my hate. 
Or petty psean pandering to the great. 

I pardon him those most unchristian lines. 

Mayor. This is most humourous, but my dinner waits. 
Broughton. Be patient ; it will take a serious turn. 
Thistlethwaite. \Reading.'\ 

To our fat Mayor, who fain would be a knight, 
I leave my stomach and my appetite ; 
And when he snores in church, like hog o'erfed, 
I bid the sacrist smite him on the head. 

\_All except those satirised laugh ; Burgum laughing 
more loudly than any. 
Mayor. \_Sputteri71g with indignation. '^ 
Smite me upon the head, you parish brat ! 
And do you think I would accept from you 
That thimble -belly in exchange for this ? 
\Slaps his paunch proudly and turns angrily to B rough- 
ton. '\ 
Is it for this you kept me from the table ? 
By turtles' ghosts ! — 

Broughton. The end is very near. 

Thistlethwaite. \_jReadi7tg.'\ 

82 



/iDar^ IRe^clttfe* [act ii. 

To Henry Burgum I bequeath my scorn 

Of ignoble men that are most nobly born, 

My Latin, modesty, and ancient name, 

To snatch his blustering ignorance from shame. 

Burgum. \Waving his cane and starting toward 
Chatterton."] 
My blustering ignorance ! I'll cudgel you ! 

Bertha. \_Ru7ining to her father a7id restraining him.~\ 
Father ! father ! 'tis but a boyish fling ; 
Be not so foolish, or you'll prove it just. 

Burgum. [Returning to his chair. '\ 
An upstart to a man of quality ! 

Thistlethwaite . [Reading.'] 

To dear Tom Phillips I entrust my heart, 
Ere to the land of shadows I depart. 
That he may have this motto graved thereon — 
Brief as my life — ' Alas, poor Chatterton ! ' 

Mayor. [While the others fume with rage.] 
'Tis treason to His Majesty, the King ! 
Lambert. And libel on us all ! 

Barrett. What shall be done ? 

Burgum. Monstrous ! 

Broughton. Take him before a magistrate. 

Enter Mrs. Chatterton. 



Act II.] u\)c :Bart) ot 



Mrs. Chatterton. Dear Mr. Lambert, did you send 
for me ? — 
O Thomas ! what is this ? 

Chatterton. 'Tis nothing, mother : 

A potent star, lord of the house of wealth. 
Forbade a prison cell. 

Mrs. Chatterton. \_Wildly.~\ A prison cell ? 

Lambert. Madam, your son has grossly libelled us ; 
And we propose to punish him by law. 

Mrs. Chatterton. You are not guilty, Thomas ? 

Chatterton. Mother, no. 

Lambert. A judge and jury shall determine that. 

Mrs. Chatterton. Oh, do not drag him, sir, before a 
court ! 

Bertha. Be merciful ! 

Barrett. He does not merit mercy. 

Alexander Catcott. That is not true. 

Broughton. Be firm. 

Lambert. I will not swerve. 

Mrs. Chatterton. O Mr. Lambert, it would kill my 
son ! 
Upon my knees — 

Chatterto7i. [Restraining her.l^ No, mother, not to 
him. 
There is no mercy Mary Redcliffe holds 

84 



jflDar^ 1Re^cUtfe♦ [act ii. 

Could make me kneel to man ; and I would kneel 
Ere you should, mother. 

Lambert. Now, lest he decamp, 

I must place him in proper custody. 

\Rises to i7iake the arrest, and Chattel-ton, pulling 
back the ruffles from his wrists, prepares for a 
struggle, while his mother clings to him m terror. 

Mrs. Chatterton. O Thomas ! Thomas ! — Mr. Lam- 
bert, mercy ! 

Bertha. Hear what he has to say in his defence ! 

Walpole. I must uphold the lady. 

Alexander Catcott. Let him answer. 

Chatterton. [Stepping forward ajid standing free. '^ 
The Will is mine : 'twas filched from Mary Redcliffe. 
I wrote the thing in sport for my own eyes, 
To please my humour and to ease my mind ; 
And when the fit of satire is upon me, 
I spare nor friend nor foe. — Our thoughts are free, 
Our pens are free in secret to record them. 
'Twas harmless as a tigress in her lair 
Suckling her playful cubs ; if not so now, 
Let your full censure fall upon the one 
Who forced it from its natural retreat. — 
It is not libellous ; but suppose it were : 
The crime is publishing, not writing it 



Act II.] uiyc Barb ot 



With no intent to print — and he's the libeller. 
We are on English soil, my merry men, 
And that is English law ! 

Broughton, \_To Lambert. '\ Is that the law? 

Lambert. It is the law ; for now I do recall 
'Tis held that publication must be shown, 
Or prosecution falls. [ Takes a paper from the table- 
drawer and goes to the fireplace. '\ But I will burn 
The Indenture of Apprenticeship made void 
By his misconduct and his obdurate heart ! 

\Lights the paper and holds it up fla7ning. 
Chatterton. My bonds are burning. \_TJien si7iiling 
sweetly as the ashes fall. ] They are all consumed. — 
Dear mother, let us go away together. 

\_Puts his arm round his mother ^ aftd they go out of 
the archway as the curtain descetids. 



86 



/IDarp IRebclttfe* [act m. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene. — A Street in Redcliffe, Bristol. At the left is 
the North Porch of St. Mary Redcliffe^ with steps 
leading to the entrance ; at the right is the Old Fox 
Inn, with a table and chai7-s near the doorway. At 
the back centre is Redcliffe Gate, through which are 
seen quaint, gabled houses. On the rise of the cur- 
tain, Chatterton is discovered writing at the table 
before the inn. As the organ sounds and the people 
begin to come from the church, he throws down the 
quill, folds the manuscript, and puts it into his 
pocket. Then Betty, Agnes, Dorothy, and Alice 
enter from the porch. 

Alice. There is our constant lover ! 

Chatterton. \_Rising and bowing. '\ Ever yours. 

Alice. A husband's letter ; for a lover's note 
Closes with ' love and kisses. ' 

Betty. Try again. 

Chatterton. Hail nymphs as radiant as the irised 
spray 
Skirting the salt-sea breakers ! 

87 



Act III.] XTbe :Bavb of 



Alice. That is better. 

Agnes. You naughty poet, you were not at service. 

Chatterton. A sermon preached to sanctify a sport 
Smacks of a barbarous age. 

Agfies. What sport ? 

Dorothy. What sport ? 

Chatterton. The sport to-day — the opening of the 
bridge. 

Alice. Why do you call it sport ? — The Vicar said 
It will be a touching and a solemn sight. 

Chatterton. And so it will ; but Chaucer's shade will 
smile 
When Bristol rouses to her cats and dogs 
To ape a pristine pageant. 

Alice. For this pomp, 

You have neglected us. 

Chatterton. Nay, for two weeks 

I have been tricking out the burghers, dear, 
With garments such as the Brystowans wore 
When christening their new bridge at Eastertide. 
I'll make the richest progress of Queen Bess 
Appear a march of rags. — Wait till you see 
George Catcott in a goat's skin and the Mayor 
Astride a white horse dight with sable trappings, 
Weaving a golden rod. 

2>2. 



/IDarp 1Re^clltfe♦ [act m. 

Betty. Won't he look grand ! 

Alice. Would you had never found that parchment, 
Tom ; 
For it has robbed us of a dozen songs. 

Agnes. I wish so, too. 

Dorothy. And so do I. 

Betty. And I. 

Chatterton. I still am young. 

Alice. What were you writing there ? 

Chatterton. A farewell ode to Mary Redcliffe, Alice ; 
I leave to-day for London. 

AIL Oh! 

Alice. You jest ! 

Enter Lambert and his MoTHERyr^;;z the church. 

Chatterton. 'Tis true : the coach this afternoon will 
take 
Your songster in its basket. 

Betty. I shall weep ! 

Dorothy. I know I shall. 

Agnes. Alice is weeping now ! 

Chatterton. Heaven bless you all ; for you have been 
to me 
What glades in forests are. 

Mrs. Lambert. O John, look there ! — 

Come here, my dears ; you do not know that boy. 

89 



Act III.] TLbc Bart) of 



Lambert. He barely 'scaped a prison. 

Chatterton. Sir, you lie. 

Lambert. \_Raising his stick.'\ 
Withdraw those words, or I will strike you down ! 

Mrs. Lainbert. Be careful, John ! 

Alice. O Mr, Lambert — no ! 

Chatterton. But touch me, sir, to make the battery 
yours, 
And I will seize you by that throat of clay 
And choke you till your venomed tongue will crawl 
Like an adder from its hole. 

Mrs. Lambert. Come, John ; come, girls ; 

For I see Murder glittering in his eyes. 

Lambert. Your end will be the gallows. 

Chatterton. Best pass on. 

Mrs. Lambert. Did you ere see a more ungrateful 
wretch ? 

\_Exeunt Mrs. Laf?ibert, Lambert^ and the girls. 

Chatterton. Footpads infest the cross-roads of my life ; 
And I must fight them even in my sleep. 

Enter from the porch Phillips, Mrs. Chatterton, 
and Mary. 

Mrs. Chatterton. There's Thomas waiting for us. 

Chatte7'ton. \_Goifig to her.'\ My own mother, 

You make me feel abashed. 

90 



jflDar^ IRebcliffe* [act m. 

Mary. I know the why ; 

We left Miss Burgum with your Uncle Richard ; 
I think they went up to the muniment room. 

Mrs. Chatiertori. I am not jealous, Thomas, yet at 
times 
I feel so home-sick for the little boy 
That had no word but mother on his lips, 
And could not walk without me. 

Chatterton. [Putting his arm round her.'\ Mother, 
dear, 
I can not walk without you now. Each twinge of pain, 
Flitting across your features, gives to me 
A tremor of alarm ; each print of care 
Leaves impress of remorse ; — why, every cloud 
That hovers o'er your face dusks all my joy ; 
And I watch you more closely than you dream. — 
Alas ! there is a shadow on your brow. 

Mrs. Chatterton. It is the thought of parting with 

you, Tom. 
Chatterton. Cold Saturn glared from the ascendant, 
mother. 
When this brave question in my mind was born ; 
But bid me stay, and I will fight in Bristol. 

M?'s. Chatterton. You are a good son, say they what 
they may. 

91 



Act III.] XTbe Bar^ ot 



Chatterton. Tell mother, Phillips, it is for the best. 
God knows that fame is not so dear to me 
As the one that gave me birth. 

Phillips. ' Tis for the best : 

'Twill give him tribes and tribute for his work j 
And I will stake my life upon its worth. 

Chatterton. Oh, I could fall down here upon my 
knees. 
Heap ashes on my head, and sackcloth wear 
For my ingratitude in cursing Fate ! — 
Three beings on this earth, and each one mine 
Through glory or dishonour to the grave ; 
No need of reason — not a doubt to kill ! 

Mrs. Chatterton. You must write often, Thomas. 

Chatterton. Every coach 

Shall be a herald of my triumph, mother. 
And when the stars allow me to unfrock 
And own the lovely children of my brain. 
You shall not teach or stitch a tick of time ; 
Mary shall realise her dreams of dress ; 
And Phillips shall not waste his precious prime 
On the witless urchins of the Colston School. 
We'll have a place beside the gliding Thames, 
As calm and peaceful as the downy swans 
Floating reflected on its heaveless breast — 

92 



/IDar^ 1Re&clitfe» [act m. 

A cottage covered o'er with ivy vines, 
Lilacs and woodbines and a hawthorn hedge, 
Huge oaks that root in ages overgrown, 
And our own sweep of sward. 

Phillips. 'Tis likely, Tom ; 

But be not sickened by a hope deferred. 

Chatterton. What hidden meaning does your tone be- 
tray ? 

Phillips. I fear that ere the world gives Rowley's 
songs 
The fervent praise it can not well unsay, 
You must tell Walpole Rowley is a myth. 

Chatterton. Why must I, Phillips ? 

Phillips. Burgum goes to London, 

At Walpole' s urgent counsel, to remove 
The doubt cast on his Pedigree and Arms ; 
And once the Heralds' College sees them, Tom, 
Suspicious eyes will scan the Rowley works 
And prove them to be yours. 

Chattel-ton. When does he go ? 

Phillips. The early part of August. 

Chatterton. Four long months ! 

I'll be prepared before that distant day ; 
Why, ere the coach rolls over Marlborough Downs, 
A method will be sprouting in my mind. 

93 



Act III.] Ube 3Bar^ ot 



Mrs. Chatterton. What method, Tom ? 

Chatterton. The method of unhooding. 

Four months is long enough with time to spare 
For Rowley's fame, were not a verse composed. 

Phillips. The Bard of Avon scarce could work so 
fast. 

Chatterton. There are two Bards of Avon, Will and 
Tom, 
And each one has his river. — Happy thought ! 
I have the method : I will write a play. 
In which a youth shall follow in my course ; 
Have Garrick act it when old Walpole's present ; 
And doff my cowl with grace. 

Mary. Why use a play ? 

Chatterton. Walpole is prejudiced, capricious, vain. 
But sensitive withal ; and a device 
So old and delicate will please his taste ; 
O'ercream the prickle of his nettled pride ; 
And, deftly done, may lift me up so high 
That the step to Rowley will appear so slight, 
His gouty foot will mount it without pause. 
And more than this — there is Miss Burgum now ! 

Mary. She is taking leave of uncle in the porch. 

Mrs. Chatterto7t. Come, Mr. Phillips ; we are in the 
way. 

94 



/IDarp IRe^cliffe^ [act hi. 

Chatterton. Forgive me, mother ; I'll be at the house 
Ere the procession starts. 

Mary. I send a kiss. 

Mrs. Chatterton. Be silent, Mary. — Thomas, bear in 
mind 
That Chatterton' s a nobler name than Burgum. 

Chattertoji. My love is humble but not grovelling, 
mother. 

[Exeunt Mrs. Chatterton, Mary, a7id Phillips as 
Bertha comes slowly doivn the steps. 

Bertha. Why, Mr. Chatterton ! 

Chatterton. Are you surprised ? 

Bertha. I have not seen you since the day — the day — 

Chatterton. You were so eloquent in my defence. 

Bertha. You were eavesdropping, then. 

Chatterton. Call it not that. 

Some words, the Cabala says, have power occult 
No spirit can resist ; 'twas so with me. 
Their curses seemed like bats upon the wing ; 
Your accents like the flight of finches, lady, 
Follov/ed by Fancy, with her mistless eyes, 
Beyond the range of sight, and memoried then 
For future dreams. 

Bertha. What have you done these days 

Since you left Lambert's house? 

95 



Act III.] Ubc Bar^ ot 



Chatterton. Not overmuch : 

Re-read Agrippa, part of Paracelsus, 
And * The Economy of Human Life ' 
Translated from a Bramin's Indian tongue ; 
Designed the costumes for this mummers' march j 
Sketched a few castles and some Roman camps ; 
Wandered at times o'er the surrounding hills — 
There are expansive views from Drundry Tower 
O'er seven counties of this peerless Isle ; 
One over Clifton and the Severn's tide 
To the Wyndcliff rising from the tortuous Wye 
Near Tintern Abbey. 

Bertha. Have you written nothing ? 

Chatterton. A few poor songs : I wrote an elegy 
At Stanton- Drew — a joyless lover's wail, 
Amid the altars of enduring stone. 
Where Druid-priest once drove his golden knife 
Into the victim's heart. 

Bertha. What have you found ? 

Chatterton. An ancient song near Norton -Malre ward, 
The place of Rowley's birth. 

Bertha. A name prophetic. 

Oh, let me see the song ! 

Chatterton. It is not here. 

Bertha. What is the title ? — tell me of it, please. 

96 



/IDar^ IRebclltfe* [act m. 

Chaiterton. A name prophetic, too — ' The Unknown 
Knight.' 

Bertha. May I not read it soon ? 

Chatterton. To-morrow evening 

I shall be passing through Threadneedle Street 
To Shoreditch, London. 

Bertha. When do you return ? 

Chatterton. When Rowley's famous and myself am 
known — 
When I stir London with real flesh and blood, 
As I shall Bristol with this puppet-show : 
To-day's my climax here. 

Bertha. That may take years. 

Chatterton. Time minces through the wonderland of 
youth : 
My months are years. 

Bertha. My prayers accompany you. 

Chatterto7i. Then I shall win : I lift the glove of Fate ! 

Bertha. You must not be so wild. 

Chatterton. \_Taking a bracelet from his pocket. ~\ 

This bangle, lady, 
Has pendants formed from early coins upturned 
By my dear father in his tragic search 
For what his present lacked ; for then as now, 
The city walls, the Roman camps, the hills, 

7 97 



Act III.] XTbe 355ar^ ot 



And the outlying castles were too weak 

To check the Roundhead, Commerce. — Here we see 

The sitting figure of a Latin dame 

Holding a goblet to uncoiling serpent 

Ascending from an altar ; on this medal, 

Constantinus riding in a chariot drawn 

By four wild steeds, * Soli invicto Comiti . ' 

Here is another maid, in her left hand 

The horn of plenty, and within her right 

The rudder of a ship. — The symbol's clear. — 

A man transfixing suppliant with a dart ; 

The drawing of a captive from a den ; 

Two hands clasped tightly in mild Nerva's reign ; 

And on this coin of silver is inscribed 

The potent word, * Invictus ! ' — Take it, lady. 

Bertha. A maiden, sir, can not accept — 

Chatter ton. You must, 

Or I will hurl the trinket to the street. 
A gift refused revives the bitter slight 
Whenever it is scanned. 

Bertha, \_Taktng tt.~\ Then give it me. — 

I am very sorry you are going, sir. 

Chatterton. Such sorrow is my joy ! 

Bertha. You must be calm, 

Or prudence will forbid me to remain. 

98 



ffbav^ IReDcliffe* [act m. 



Chatterton. Fools are uplifted by the wings of Love. 
You do not know how calm I meant to be ; 
How oft I have rehearsed this parting scene 
With every tranquil word I was to speak, 
And not a syllable is apt — not one. 
I love you — that is all. 

Be7'tha. You are a boy, 

And youth is changeful as an April sky. 

Chatterton. You call me boy ; I have an only son 
Three centuries old — his name is Thomas Rowley. 

Bertha. You must forget this fondness in your work. 

Chatterton. I've tried to weary love with ceaseless 
toil: 
Why, I have scarcely slept since last we met ; 
No hour too late, and not a moment lost. 
Nor could I drown my love in beauty, lady : 
Each blackbird sang of wooing to its mate, 
Each primrose whispered of a bridal wreath. 
Each landscape spake of wedded years ahead. — 
Look on the carving of that purfled porch. 
And see a genius tangled in design : 
Love is the rock, the rest is filigree ! 

Bertha. You promised to be commonplace in day- 
light. 

Chatterton. O, gentle lady, give me some response — 

99 



Act III.] ube Bar^ ot 



A word on whose foundation I can build. 
Think what it is to be alone in London : 
A million people and not one a friend ; 
A maze of narrow streets with smoking lamps ; 
Steep, creaking stairs, a garret, and a candle 
That weeps and struggles feebly with the dark. 
But to a lover loved, all this is changed : 
A million fancies come as welcome friends. 
The streets are highways leading on to fame, 
The lamps are stars, the garret is a palace. 
The tallow dip is Freedom's flaming torch. 
And the swift river is the flux of power 
Seeking communion with the mighty streams 
That pour into the ocean. — Bertha, dear, 
Let Love accompany me. 

Bertha. This is true love, 

If it prove lasting. 

Chatterton. Put me to the proof. 

Bertha. You must not deem me cold and heartless, sir ; 
But were I yours, and were your love to wane, 
My life would be undone. 

Chatterton. A test ! a test ! 

Bertha. Time is the only test, and we must wait ; 
I, too, am young and vaguely know my heart ; 
Though this your frankness forces me to own : 

100 



/iDar^ IRebcltffe. [act hi. 

I love to hear your voice, and when you leave 
I feel I shall be lonely. 

Chatterton. Those few words 

Will fill all London with the scent of roses 
And flood the alleys with a gilding light ! 
In knightly spirit, lady, I accept 
The trying test of time and seal the bond. 

\_Sinks upon one knee a?id kisses her hand. 

Bertha. My father comes ! \Chatterton rises. 

Enter Burgum, Alexander Catcott, and Barrett. 

Chatterton. I thank thee, Mary Redcliffe. 

Burgum. Yes, here they are ! 

Barrett. I told you it was true. 

Burgum. How dare you meet my daughter ? 

Alexander Catcott. Silly question : 

Wren flies to wren, and why not youth to maiden ? 

Burguin. Thistlethwaite said that you were here 
together. 

Chatterton. A truth with evil purpose is a lie. 

Burgmn. Are you not here ? 

Chatterton. I am not quite awake, 

Burgum, No insolence, or you shall feel this stick. 

Chatterton. I think that I should welcome the first 
blow 
To show I am not dreaming. 

lOI 



Act III.] ubc Barb of 



Alexander Catcott. Gently, Burgum : 

If you would have the maiden love the youth, 
Abuse him and she will. 

Burgum. She love that scrub ? 

And it is odds I would bestow her hand 
On a pauper's brat scarce past his teething teens, 
And foul my lineage with the vassal blood 
That comes from sires like his ! [Laughs scornfully. 

Barrett. Be not so loud. 

Chatterton. Saint Mary, lend me patience ! 

Bertha. Father, cease. 

Burgum. By John de Bergham's shade, it is too good 
For anything but laughter ! — Tell them, Bertha, 
As you confessed to me some time ago, 
That you love Rowley and not Chatterton. 

Bertha. Confessions, father, are best made at home. 

Burgum. Confessions — 'slife ! 

Alexander Catcott. The lady's in the right : 

Confessions to the public tang of pride. 

Burgum, Oh, damn the public ; I will have the truth ; 
Girl, answer me — you love or love him not. 

Bertha. Dear father, I do not deny your claim 
To learn the inmost secrets of my heart 
For my own welfare and your peace of mind ; 
But, sir, not here — I'll answer you to-night. 

102 



/iDar^ iReDcltffe* [act m. 

Burgum. Defied by my own child ! 

Chatterton. Sir, I will ease — 

Burgum. You said the first blow would be welcome, 
boy; 
Well, there it is ! \_Strikes Chatterton with his cane. 

Bertha. O father — Chatterton ! 

Chatter to fi. [Restraining himself with a strong effort. ] 
Saint Mary, Mary, Mary ! 

Alexander Catcott. \To Burgum. '\ You are a brute ! 

Chatterton. It is a fitting prologue for the test ; 
I did not dream that I could bear a blow — 
God help the next that strikes me ! 

Alexander Catcott. Strike him again. 

And my stick will play about your Midas ears ! 

Burgu?n. I've humbled him before her. 

Bertha. Raised him, sir ; 

For well I know that no man but my father 
Would live to say ' I struck him. ' 

Chatterton. I wish the blow 

Had been much harder — it will leave no scar. 

A lexander Catcott. [ To Burgum . ] 
I warned you : she will love him now ere night, 
Were she a maid of marble in the snow. 
I love him better, and I've loved him long. 

Chatterton. O Mr. Catcott, I have done you wrong — 

103 



Act III.] Ube Bart) ot 



The bitterest wrong because it was sincere. 

Were you a priest, yourself should set the penance : 

I'd rather murder than disprize a friend. 

Alexander Catcott. Merciless vicars are the devil's 
spies : 
My province is to save and not to judge. 
Your faults are many ; but your frozen pride 
In kindness melts like icicles in the sun. — 
Call on me at the vicarage to-night. 

Chatterton. I go to London, sir. 

Bur gum. Had I known that, 

I would not have chastised you. 

Chatterton. Let that pass ; 

I am on trial, and the worst is o'er : 
You turned the thumbkin, and I did not flinch. 

Barrett. You shall not go to London till I have 
The parchments that will verify my book. 

Chattertofi. You're younger and more muscular than 
Burgum : 
I'll give them all to you with Rowley's works, 
If you touch me with a finger of restraint, 
Or say again * you shall ! ' 

Bertha. Ee not so brash ! 

I know your courage would not blanch at Death. 

Chatterton. Here's Horace Walpole with the barnacle 

104 



/IDarp IRebcUtfe* [act hi. 

That fastens to each onward-ploughing keel, 
And moves as swiftly as the loftiest ship 
To unvexed anchorage in the silken East. — 
Pray God, he may insult me ! 

Alexander Caicott, Thomas, lad, 

A quarrel now would rob you of your crown. 

Chatterton. I will not quarrel, then — God bless you, 
sir. 

Enter Walpole and Thistlethwaite. 

Burgum. \_Going to Walpole. '\ 
Welcome ! — I stopped for you at the White Lion. 

Walpole. I went up to the Lamb to lodge with 
ghosts. 

Bertha. \_To Chatterton.'] My admiration is more 
wholly yours 
Than when you stood and faced them with the law. 

Chatterton. I am a feather from the wing of Fortune. 

Walpole. Miss Burgum, I have sought you every- 
where ; 
And, but for him, I should be searching still. 

Bertha. A Bristol stone is barely worth the search. 

Walpole. A lapidary can detect a jewel 
Though in a bezel with delusive foil. — 
I have received from London by the post 
My 'Castle of Otranto.* Here it is. 

105 



Act III.] Ube 36arb ot 



Chatterton. Walpole and Rowley entered in the lists. 

Walpole. I will not break a lance with any knight : 
Rowley is Rowley, and myself am self. 

Burgiun. It is a masterpiece of noble wit ; 
Second to none since John de Bergham wrote. 

Bertha. You have not read it. 

Btcrgum. But I've read its author. 

Chatterton. Were your words conscious, they would 
be superne. 

Walpole. What is that coming here in garb grotesque 
Bearing a rod of gold ? 

Chatterton. The Mayor of Bristol ! 

Walpole. He looks more like a monkey than a mayor. 

Chatterton. You have the prejudice but not the pride 
Upholden by the conquest of the past. 
Enter the Mayor. 

Mayor. Greeting, Bristolians — greeting to you all ! 

Walpole. Lord love us, he will make a speech. 

Mayor. A speech ! 

You call upon the Mayor to make a speech ? 
To-day we emulate our ancient sires. 
And open our new bridge as they did theirs. 
This is the day of days, the hour of hours — 
Time's apex from which every thing descends. 

Walpole. Let me crawl out from under ere you fall. 

io6 



/iDar^ IReDcliffe^ [act hi. 

Chatterton. Your gorgeous robes of state are all awry. 
\_Arranges the 7'obes on the May or. '\ 
That gilded rod is not a walking-stick ; 
But an awful symbol of barbaric sway, 
And must be borne like sceptre in the hand. — 
By those two Britons, Brennus and Bellinus, 
You wear your helmet with the visor back, 
As if your enemies were in the rear ! 
Turn it about. — There, that is better, sir. 
Draw round that girdle ; ornament your front. 
Or you will look, sir, like a Chinese junk : 
Most lofty in the poop. — 'Odspins-and-needles ! 
I must o'ersee the placing of each gaud, 
Or, in your ignorance of knightly forms. 
You'll have your horse's frontlet on his rump. 

Mayor. I left George Catcott struggling with his 
clothes. 

Chatterton. I must array him, too ; or he will stalk. 
Like wild Caradoc in the streets of Rome : 
With goatskin hose for muffettees on his arms, 
His short, white alba tied about his loins, 
And naked else. 

Mayor. What was the Saxons' food ? 

Chatterton. Turtles and nappy ale. 

Mayor. Hail to their taste ! 

107 



Act III.] XTbe ifiSarb ot 



Each drop of Saxon blood within my veins 
Cries ' turtle ! ' to my stomach. 

Chatterton. 'Ti? but wind. 

Thisilethivaite. The Old Fox here serves turtles, I 

believe. 
Mayor. Bid them prepare one ; I am nearly famished. 
Chatterton. Stop ! — not a mouthful shall his Mayor- 
ship have, 
Or this procession moves without my aid. 
Mayor. Let me have one wee turtle. 
Chatterton. Not a fin. 

Mayor. 'Tis heartless, boy, to make me fast three 

hours. 
Thistlethwaite. You have my deepest sympathy, dear 
sir; 
For at the school we know what hunger is. 
I care not for myself, but for the lads 
Whose growing bodies proper nurture need. 

Mayor. Saint Julian ! Latin is less use than food. 
Thistlethwaite. The ham is sliced so thin that one 
pig's thigh 
Would carpet Brandon Hill in red and white ; 
And then there is no butter on the bread. 

Mayor. Sandwiches and no butter — monstrous fraud ! 
What will the next race be ? — How comes this thus ? 

1 08 



/IDar^ IRebcltffe* [act hi. 

Thistlethivaite. The master is a very worthy man, 
But oft too heedless. 

Chatterton. You back -biting flea ! 

You seek the master's place. — Another word, 
And I will spank you in the public street 
Until your bed will need no warming-pan ! 

Bertha, O Mr. Chatterton ! 

Alexander Catcott. Forbear, my boy. 

Burgu?7i. He is but jealous of the young man's parts. 

Chatterton. Nay, jealous that a mongrel cur can thrive 
By licking feet that ought to spurn him, sir. 
What has he done — what will he ever do 
That ranks with my least line ? 

Alexander Catcott. The lad is just : 

Since that Pride's Purge in lawyer Lambert's house, 
I've studied Thistlethwaite with kindly eyes. 
And found a mountebank. 

Mayor. Cease this debate ! 

I would not wait my dinner for a cock-fight ; 
Much less for this. 

Chatterton. A fight is in me still. 

\A burst of laughter from the inn is heard. 

Mayor. Those hungry sots will leave the larder bare. 
\Then to Thistlethwaite .'\ 
Go bid the landlord have prepared for me, 

109 



Act III.] Ube JSart) ot 



As soon as this sublime parade is o'er, 

A knuckle of veal, and see the bone is blue 

To prove the meat is young ; a Southdown leg 

With fat as white as is the mountain snow ; 

Some sweetbreads garnished with mushrooms and eggs ; 

A chicken minced and stewed with pats of butter ; 

A hamper full of strawberries red-ripe ; 

Cucumbers, cabbages, and apple pie ; 

A pregnant pudding in a brandy sea ; 

And one large turtle turned to Saxon soup, 

Flavoured with onion, marjoram, and ham, 

And riched with lights and liver. — But beware, 

Lest he should burst the bladder of the beast. 

And drench my dainty appetite with gall. 

Chatterton. Why not a calf's brain, too? 

Mayor. Yes, order that. 

Thistlethwaite. It shall be done at once. 

\Exit into inn. 

Mayor. \To Chatterton.~\ Come now with me : 

If I must fast, the shorter time the better. 

Walpole. Go all of you with him ; for I confess 
A Joseph's ardour to interpret dreams 
To Potipherah's daughter. 

Burgu7n. Royal dreams ! 

Come, Barrett, Vicar — you may be of aid. 

110 



/iDari? 1Ret)clitfe* [act m. 

Alexander Catcott. Were this a Grecian festival, I 
might. 

\Exeunt all except Walpole and Bertha. 

Walpole. \_Sittmg down upon the steps of the church.'X 
Let us dispense with etiquette, my dear. 
And be ourselves. 

Bertha. Form oft is part of self. 

Walpole. Nay, form is for those butterflies with brains 
Much lower than their rank \ I need it not. 
Sit here beside me and appraise this book. 
\Then after Bertha is seated. ~\ 
* The Castle of Otranto ' was a fling 
Against the modern critics, who must blow 
The dust of ages from each work of art. 
Or blast it with their breath. — I published it 
As a translation of a tale antique 
Writ by an artful priest in the Crusades. 

Bertha. Why, Rowley was a priest ! 

Walpole. A mere coincidence. 

Then when the Gothic story was in vogue 
And men of nicest censure praised it high, 
I quick unfrocked, and owned that it was mine. 

\Laughs, 

Bertha. You wanted courage. 

Walpole. It was boldly wise 

III 



Act III.] XTbe Barb of 



To grant the world a treasure, and by a ruse 
To hasten the enjoyment of the boon. 

Bertha. With power of wealth and preference of birth, 
You were afraid to father your own child 
Till it had fathered you. For one obscure, 
There would be more excuse. 

Walpole. You are too harsh : 

It is the music not the parent muse — 
The cord is severed when the song is born. 
What matter whether Ossian or Macpherson 
Wrote those Erse poems flashing like old Pindar's? 
Let the translator own the forgery, 
And Gray is ready to pack up his lyre, 
Saddle wild Pegasus, and set out at once 
To greet the minstrel in his Highland home \ 
And I will ride, if needful, on the crupper. — 
But this is from the point ; here is the book. 

Bertha. [After turning over the pages. '\ 
'Tis writ in prose ! 

Walpole. Prose is a merchantman, 

And Poetry a rakish pirate craft 
With greater spread of sail. But I've a play 
Called 'The Mysterious Mother,' writ in verse ; 
And you shall read it when you come to London 
As my most honoured guest. 

112 



/IDar^ IRebclttre^ [act m. 

Bertha. You have a press : 

Why not print Rowley's poems, and exalt 
A youth that has rare genius of his own ? 

Walpole. What you command I'll do, but nothing 
more. 
Artists have pencils, authors have their pens ; 
And the public must reward them at its will. 

Bertha. It is unfair to make me give command, 
When your ripe judgment should enforce the act. 
A gift to Genius is a gift to Time, 
And outranks Genius in its melting power — 
'Tis a payment by the Present to the Future 
Of what the Present owes the parent Past. 
Think not to buy a quittance of this claim 
With cunning words that counterfeit the truth : 
Posterity is merciless but just. — 
Now tell me of Otranto. 

Walpole. 'Tis an attempt 

To wed young Nature to mature Romance ; 
And as the public have applauded me, 
I must not say that I have wholly failed. 
I've followed Shakespeare, not Corneille, dear, 
In placing naivete near the august. — 
My servants speak as servants, not as counts. 

Bertha. Therein you followed life. 
8 113 



Act III.] ube 3Barb ot 



Walpole. A keen remark ; 

Though great Voltaire would censure me most sore 
For setting a buffoon beside a seer. 
But I appeal from Voltaire to himself: 
Within the preface to his ^ Enfant Prodigue,' 
Marked by his style and ease of argument, 
These words appear, ' On y voit un melange — ' 
Do you speak French ? 

Bertha. A simple phrase or two. 

Walpole. It is a pity : I will teach you French 
And somewhat of Italian ; though I hate 
The blending of the tiger and the monkey, 
With more of monkey than of tiger, dear. 
In every male in France. 
Thistlethwaite enters from the inn and then departs. 

Bertha. There's Thistlethwaite. 

Walpole. A very modest youth. 

Bertha. An arrant sneak ! 

Walpole. That damns him in my eyes ; and let 
him go. — 
Read o'er this tale and tell me of its faults ; 
For I have found each word of yours acute 
And vital to the issue. 'Tis a shame — 
But with your father I will have a talk 
And seek a way to mend it. 

114 



riDar^ iRebcUtfe. [act iil 

Bertha. To mend what ? 

Walpole. To mend the blind decrees of eyeless Chance. 
Bertha. That is the errand of a man of wealth. 

\The hells of Mary Redcliffe begin to churie. 
Walpole. What means this chime of bells ? 
Bertha. I fancy, sir, 

A messenger has entered the south porch, 
With news that the procession is begun. 
Enter the People. 
Walpole. You are a sibyl, for the people come. 
Gingerbread Man. Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot 

spice gingerbread ! 
Walpole. How harmless they appear in gay attire ! 
But when at table, brandishing their knives 
In act to carve a mountain of roast beef. 
They mind me of the cannibals, my dear. 
Enter Chatterton, Mrs. Chatterton, Mary, and 

Phillips. 
Chatterton. We'll take our stand here, mother, on 
the steps : 
There could not be a better point of view ; 
For they will mass in numbers by this porch. 
\Then to Bertha.'\ 

I left the burghers ready in the meadows ; 
The chiming of the bells will bring them down. 

"5 



Act III.] ube BarO of 



Enter Alice, Betty, Dorothy, and Agnes. 

Ag?ies. There is the bard ! 

Chatterton. The Bard of Mary Redcliffe ! 

Come here, my dears; there's room enough for all. 

Alice. We saw them in the meadows. 

Dorothy. They look odd. 

Betty. Six of them put the Mayor upon his horse. 

Gingerbread Man. Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot 
spice gingerbread ! 

Chatterton. Sir Gingerbread, come over to these 
ladies. 
And prove a baker's right to golden spurs ; 
For knighthood's won in tournaments of trade. 
God save King George and bless his glorious reign ! 
\Then after the man is co77ie to the steps. ~\ 
Here, mother, is a smoking piece for you. — 
Miss Burgum, Mary, Alice — all must partake : 
The Saxons fed on this and turtle soup ; 
But save the crumbs, for waste betokens want. — 
Will you not try it, sir? 

Walpole. No, none for me. 

Chatterton. I beg your pardon, sir ; for I forgot 
Your Gothic castle is of gingerbread. 
Walpole. This is pure impudence ! 

Bertha. Excitement, sir. 

ii6 



/iDar^ IRebcUffe* [act m. 

Chatterto7i. 'Tis madness to speak truth. 

\A song celebrating the joys of the Fine Apple Inn 
is heard frojii the Old Fox across the street. 
Mrs. Chatterton. Your father's song ! 

Chatterton. That's Thistlethwaite's contrivance to 
bedim 
The perfect lustre of this flawless hour : 
He went into the inn. — Wait till he comes ! 

Mrs. Chatterton, You must do nothing, Thomas ! 
Chatterton. Nothing, mother: 

I am merciful as Mercy when I rule. 

Enter Burgum, Vicar Catcott, Barrett, and 
Thistlethwaite. 
Burgum. There's Mr. Walpole ; we will join him. 
Mrs. Chatterton. Now, Tom, be civil to them. 
Chatterton. I will, mother. 

Enter Flower Girl. 
Flower Girl. \_Singing^ 

My basket daily I supply ; 

Come buy my nosegays, buy who'll buy. 

Sweet violets ! Sweet violets ! 

Chatterton. The souls of hapless lovers are in flowers ; 
And in the violet modest la dwells, 
Still hiding from Apollo. — Here, my dear ! 

117 



Act III.] Ubc Bart) ot 



I will buy every blossom, lest I miss 
A fragrant whisper in its haunted leaves. 
[Some of the people latigh.~\ 
Laugh on ! My life's salvation lies in mirth : 
Flowers must drink sunlight to preserve their bloom, 
But they grow faster in a day of gloom. — 
That rime is saucy, for it came unsought. 
Enter Lambert a?id his Mother from the street and 
BROUGHTON/r^>^/ the porch. 

Mrs. Chatterton. You must be prudent, Thomas ; for 
you have — 

Chatterton. [ Thrusting his hand into his pocket. ] 
Five pounds, three shillings, and one penny, mother : 
The number of the whirling spheres of song. 
I can count all by feeling in my pocket ; 
\_Then glancing significantly at Walpole.'\ 
But gingerbread takes second place to-day. 

Flower Girl. How many nosegays, sir. 

Chatterton, All you have gathered. 

Flower Girl. Two shillings for the lot. 

Chatterton. You shall have three. 

\Then as he throws the violets to those on the steps."] 
Catch them, fair ladies, catch them as they fly ! 
They will perfume the air, and in return 
The air will cleanse them of my pitchy touch. 

ii8 



/iDarp 1Re^clttfe♦ [act m. 

Flower Girl. I shall have more of them to-morrow, 

sir. 
Minstrels. \Singing in the distance. '\ 

When King Kinghill in his hand 
Held the sceptre of this land, 
Sheening star of Christian light 
The merkie mists of pagan night 

Gan to scatter far and wide : 
Then Saint Werburgh he arose, 
Doffed his honours and fine clothes ; 
Preaching in his Master's name, 
To the land of West Sexx came. 

Where blaeke Severn rolls his tide. 

Chatterton, [Rushing up the steps at the first sound. '\ 
There' re coming, mother; listen to the strains ! 
Bertha. \In alarm. '\ His eyes are all aflame ! 
Mrs. Chatterton. Be calm, my son. 

Chatterton. 'Tis worth a life to live a single hour : 
Would one exultant moment were eterne ! 

[The sounds grow louder and louder ^ and the people 

shout. 
Then enter two Beadles strewing fresh straw. 
Chatterton. The Beadles ! — The procession is begun ! 
Enter George Catcott dressed in hose and doublet 
of goat-skin^ over which is a large white robe, 
119 



Act III.] XTbe JSarD ot 



without sleeves, reaching to his loins. Oil his left 
shoulder is a girdle of azure reaching also to his 
loins on the right, doubled back to the left, and 
fastened with a golden buckle dangled to his knee. 
In his hand is a shield representing Saint Wer- 
burgh crossing the ford. 
Phillips. George Catcott sure ! 
Chatterton. King Harold was a fool ! 

Catcott will be the first to cross the bridge. 

\Enter a Man in complete armour bearing an ancient 

sword of Bristol, followed by a band of Saxon 

Spearmen with triangular shields, short hauberks^ 

and rude helmets defending the head and neck."] 

Hold up your heads, you stooping, knock-kneed 

knaves ! 
And march as ^lla marched when forced to leave 
His Bertha's arms to battle with the Danes. 

\_Enter six Clarions and six Minstrels. 
Minstrels. [Singing.'] 

Then the folk a bridge did make 
Over the stream unto the hecke 
All of wood eke long and wide, 
Pride and glory of the tide ; 

Which in time did fall away. 
Then Earl Leof he bespedde 

I20 



/iDar^ IRe^clitfe* [act m. 

This great river from his bed, 
Round his castle for to run ; 
'Twas in troth an ancient one, 

But war and time will all decay. 

Chatter to7i. You Danish ravens, give a louder croak ! 
[Enter a Man bearing a banner with a boar^ s head 
on it. 
The Saxon symbol ! — see the boar's head, mother ! 
It makes a fitting banner for our Mayor. 

[Enter the Priests a7id the Friars , sojne singing 
Saint Werburgh' s song and others sou7iding cla- 
rio7is thereto. 
Louder you shavelings ! — Rowley was a monk ; 

[Enter the Mayor in golden robes waving a rod of 
gold, fnounted on a white horse with mane and 
tail braided with ribbons, and with a small 
escutcheon of the ancient anns of Bristol on its 
forehead. Beside the horse walks a divarf bear- 
ing in his hand the Mayor' s hebnet. 
The Mayor ! the Mayor ! Look, mother, at the Mayor ! 
[Eiiter the Alder77ien i7i scarlet copes and hats with 
sable plumes, mounted on black horses dight with 
white trappi7igs. 
The Aldermen ! — Oh, I shall die of mirth ! 

[Enter a crowd of Saxon warriors, extending as 

121 



Act III.] Ube Barb ot 



far as the eye can reach, armed with axes, bills, 
clubs, a?id short swords. 
Now ^lla bids defiance to the Danes ! 

\_The procession halts before the church in a glitter- 
ing mass, and the singing ceases. 
Mayor. Bristolians all, Time never saw before, 
And ne'er will see again, a sight like this. — 
Strike up the music ! Forward to the bridge ! 
Minstrels. [Singijtg. ] 

Now again with bremie force, 
Severn in his ancient course 
Rolls his rapid stream along, 
With a sable swift and strong. 

Moving many an okie wood. 
We, the men of Bristowe town, 
Have upreared this bridge of stone, 
Wishing each one it may last 
Till the date of days be past. 

Standing where the other stood. 

\As the singing is resumed and the procession begins 
to 7nove, a horn, the roll of wheels, and the sound 
of horses'* hoofs are heard. 
The People. The coach ! the coach ! the coach ! 
Chatterton. It is the coach ! 

The dust is flying from those hoofs and wheels ! 

122 



/IDar^ IRebclttfe* [act m. 

That horn blows welcome summons to the fray. 

Fear not, dear mother ; I am armed in steel ! 

Good-bye, Tom Phillips , I will write you oft ; 

My loving sister ; and my mother last — 

The last and dearest, for she gave me life. 

Saint Mary Redcliffe be your guardian Saint. 

Bristol is mine ; I now lay siege to London ! 

[^T/ie sounds of the approaching coach grow louder 
and louder J the procession inoves on toward the 
bridge ; Mrs. Chatterto7i throws herself sobbing 
into her son' s arms ; and the curtain slowly de- 
scends. 



123 



Act IV.] Ubc 3BarD ot 



ACT FOURTH. 

Scene. — Marylebone Gardens, London. In the centre 
is a pavilio7i with a curtained stage, on either side of 
which is an orange tree with a small lamp in each 
orange. At the front left are a rustic table and 
seats ; and at the right is a statue of Milton seated 
as if listening to music. The trees and the pavilion, 
decorated with festoons of flowers and brilliantly 
lighted with lamps of various colours, give to the 
place the appearance of a gala night. On the rise 
of the curtain, ladies and gentlemen are strolling 
through the grounds, and two macaronis with two 
girls are seated at the table drinking wine. The 
men bray like asses and the girls crow like cocks. 
Then braying and crowing are heard from different 
parts of the gardens, and are followed by laughter. 

First Gentleman. Hens never crow till cocks are 

turned to asses. 
First Girl. Eve must have crowed. 
Second Girl. Ay, men have brayed since Adam. 

Second Gentleman. A thrust between the ribs ! 

124 



/IDar^ 1Ret)clttfe* [act iv. 

First Gentleman. A fitting thrust 

For one of Eve's fair daughters. 

Second Gentleman. Let us bray. 

[ The me?t bray and the girls crow as before. 

First Gentlefnan. \Looking at a program7ne.'\ 
What is there left for fodder ? — A Welsh harpist 
And a Burletta, * Cupid and the Titan,' 
By Thomas Chatterton. 

Second Girl. By Chatterton ? 

Second Gentleman. A raw recruit : I never heard 
of him. 

First Gentleman. The playing off of fireworks at 
eleven. 

First Girl. We must not stay so late. 

Second Gentleman. Another hour 

Will make departure early. 

Fif'st Girl. But not safe : 

Highwaymen grow like weeds in Marylebone fields ; 
And one among them, if report be true, 
Is Satan in the semblance of a man. 

First Gentleman. You mean Francisco ? 

First Girl. Yes, that is his name, 

Though he is English I have heard it said. 
He rides a stallion which he calls Black Death. 

Second Girl. He rode from York to London in a night. 

125 



Act IV.] U\)c IBar^ ot 



Second Gentleman. \Laughing.'\ 
And leaped the Thames below Westminster Bridge ! 
Enter Francisco. 

First Gentleinan. [Putting his hand on his sword. ] 
Let me meet this Francisco, and he'll ride 
From Earth to Hades at a break-neck pace. 

Francisco. I shall be present when you meet him, 
sir. [ Turns quickly and disappears. 

First Girl. \In alar7n.~\ Who is that man? 

First Gentlejnan. I did not see his face. 

Second Girl. Might he not be Francisco ? 

Second Gentleman. Nonsense, dear : 

He would not thrust his head into a noose. 

First Girl. We should have gone to Vauxhall. 

Second Gentleman. Sadler's Wells, 

Where once a human monster ate live cocks ; 
Or Finche's Grotto — 

First Gentleman. Ranelagh, Jenny's Whim, 

Or Adam and Eve Tea Gardens ; for your charms 
Make each place Paradise, as they do this. 

First Girl. Near Eden's apple tree a serpent crawled : 
I may seem timid, but I dread that rogue. 

First Gentleman. A jester merely who o'erheard my 
threat. 



126 



/iDari^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act iv. 

Second Gentleman. Departing with the crowd has less 
of risk 
Than leaving here alone. 

First Gentleman. Come, take a stroll ; 

For walking, like the flow from Pancras Wells, 
Is a general and a sovereign help to nature : 
Cleanses the body, sweetens bilious blood. 
And quells the rising vapours of the mind. — 
We'll walk away from care. But first a toast. 
\_They rise and pick up their glasses.^ 
My meeting with Francisco — be it soon ! 
Fi7'st Girl. [Putting down her glass. ~\ 
I will not so brave Fortune. 

Second Girl. Nor will I. 

First Gentleman. You cause my sword to blush within 

its sheath. 
Enter Chatterton, Monsieur Barthelemon, and 

Phillips. 
Second Gentleman. There's Barthelemon, the leader 

of the band. 
First Gentleman. Salute him with the voices of the 

morn. 
\_The7t after braying and crowi?tg they resume their seats. 
Chatterton. Walpole is here to-night ; and, as I said, 
I have a weighty secret to unfold 

127 



Act IV.] ube Barb of 



Through this Burletta ; but at rehearsal, sir, 
Your music was so loud it drowned my words, 
And they were foaled for ears. 

Barthelejnon. Ze music loud ? 

Chatterton. Questions are oft as crooked as their 
marks : 
I vow that in the hubbub you create 
A thunderbolt would sound like a skittle-ball. 

Barthelemon. Mon Dieu ! c'est le ton qui fait la 
musique. 
Ze toucher is so soft as ze — as ze — 
As ze — petit ruisseau — vat call you him ? 

Chatterton. I call him nothing, for I know him not. 
Speak English or be dumb. 

Phillips. Have patience, Tom. 

Barthelemon. Ze music, too, for ears. 

Chatterton. 'Tis not alone. 

The words and music should together blend 
Like two harmonious thoughts ; but by the Muse ! 
When little Cupid chants his chiefest lay, 
Your fiddles whine like three-mouthed Cerberus 
Unhoused for the night ; your shifting trombones, 
Your fifes and clarionets and deep bassoon 
Rumble like the windy stomach of a god. 
Making fair Venus when she sings appear 

128 



/iDarp iRe^cltffe* [act iv 

As if she chewed in silence on a bite 

Of tough ambrosia ; and your French horns 

Play merry hell with Jupiter's last speech. 

Barthelemon. Ciel ! parler comme 9a de I'art divin ! 
Ze music hell ! — Diable ! vous etes un enfant ! 

[ Walks up and down in a rage. 

Phillips. Do not excite him further. 

Chatterton. But my words — 

Barthelemon. Ze vords ! ze vords ! — ve buy ze food 
in vords. 
Vous avez soif, you vish a leetle beer, 
Some port — eh bien ! vous employez les mots. 
Vous avez faim ; que voulez-vous ? du jambon ? 
Ze tarts, ze cheesecakes, ou ze syllabubs ? — 
Encore les mots, n'est-ce pas? Parbleu ! ze vords 
Pour les choses basses — les choses materielles ! 

Chatterton. A novel punch — French wine and English 
ale. 
Why, you old fizzling bottle of champagne ! 
They employ far better melodies than yours 
For hawking crabs and lobsters in the streets. 

Bai'thelemon. Zest ! vous etes gourmand ! 

Chatterton. I a gourmand, sir. 

When both of your forefeet are in the trough ? 
Glance o'er this list and cease your squealing, sir. 
9 129 



Act IV.] XTbe Batb of 



[^Takes a programme from his pocket. '\ 

A song, ' Swift winged vengeance nerves my arm,* 

By Mr. Thomas, set by Barthelemon ; 

Concerto on the vioHn, by Barthelemon ; 

A rare French song, by Madame Barthelemon ; 

Trumpet Concerto, by Master Barthelemon ; 

An overture in Otho, Handel — bah ! 

A favourite song translated from the French, 

Music and words by Monsieur Barthelemon ; 

A new Burletta, * Cupid and the Titan, ' 

By Chatterton, but set by Barthelemon. — 

Ye gods ! the printer has made one mistake : 

Fireworks, and not set off by Barthelemon ! 

Bartheleinon. Ah, c'est trop fort! 

\The macaronis and the girls, who have been enjoy- 
ing the quarrel y now burst into a laugh. 

Phillips. Speak less loud : 

You are attracting notice. 

Chatterton. Friend Barthelemon, 

If you obscure a syllable — but one — 
Louis will lose a subject — do you hear? 

Barthelemon. Pardieu ! 

Chatterton. But let the words have scope to-night, 
And you thereafter shall have your own will. 

Barthelemon. Ze vords to-night ? 

130 



/IDar^ IRe^cliffe^ [act iv. 

Chatterton. To-night. 

Barthelemoji. Ze music den ? 

Chatterton. Then let your battery open on my lines 
And blow them into dust. — Are you agreed ? 

Barthelemon. Oui, oui ! 

Chatterton. Your hand on that. 

Barthelemon. Volontiers ! 

First Gentleman. A peaceful ending to a tragic 
theme 
Ensures the vulgar plaudits of the pit. [ Claps his hands. 

First Girl. That must be Chatterton. 

First Gentleman. Nay, Cupid, dear, 

Contending with the Titan. 

Second Girl. Lovely boy ! 

Phillips. \To Chatterton who turns angrily to the 
jesters. ] 
Do not be nettled — it is only sport. 

Chatterto7i. I can tell sport from insult by the smell. 

Second Gentleman. By Jove ! he ruffled up his 
feathered neck 
Like bantam in a cock-pit. 

First Gentleman. Cupid, Harry : 

Ride on the figure till its race is run. 

First Girl Are not the darts of Cupid forged in 
France ? 

131 



Act IV.] XTbe Barb ot 



First Gentleman. The leaden ones in England for the 

French. 
Second Gentleman. Does Mother Venus know her 
son's abroad 
At this late hour of night ? 

Second Girl. Love's day is night. 

First Gentleman. Nimble Apollo could not dodge his 
darts — 
How foolish in the Frenchman ! 

Chatterton. \_Goi?tg to the table. '\ Gentlemen ! 
First Gentleman. [Faying 7to attention to Chatterton.'\ 
Where were the vans of Cupid ? 

Fhillips. Tom ! 

Chatterton. \_Slapping the fop in the face. ^ There's 
one ! 
How do you like its flapping ? 

First Gentleman, [Leaping to his feet.'\ Ill-mannered 
boy ! 
You die for this. 

Chatterton. My death before my epitaph. 

Enter Francisco. 
First Girl O Edward ! 

Seco7id Girl. There's a tremor in his voice ! 

Second Gentleman. All of our jests were born of 
purest fun. 

132 



/IDar^ 1Rebcllfte» [act iv. 

Chaiterton. I slapped his face in fun. 

First Gentle?nan. [Drawmg his sword. ~\ Defend 
yourself. 

Phillips . He knows no thrust nor parry — it is murder ! 

First Gentleman, Then should he have a nurse. 

Phillips, \_Despairingly to Chatterton.'\ You are un- 
skilled ! 

Chatterton. [Shaking Phillips off and drawing his 
sword. '\ 
My skill is inspiration ! — Stand apart. 

\_They cross swords. 

Francisco. [Striking up the weapons. ~\ 
This quarrel's mine ! 

Chatterton. I am sufficient, sir. 

Francisco. The first abused should be the first avenged. 
I'll have a bout with him and then with you ; 
But 'tis unfair that I should meet you both 
Without a breathing spell. 

First Gentleman. What plaint have you 

When we were strangers till you spoke ? 

First Girl. Beware ! 

Francisco. You live upon the same revolving globe, 
Eat its rare products, fill its choicest space, 
You breathe the air I crave, and childish prate 
When I feel eloquent. 



Act IV.] XTbe BarD ot 



First Gentlema7i, That is no wrong. 

Francisco. God's death ! 'odsfish ! and all the royal 
oaths ! 
You give the lie to me ? 

First Girl. It is Francisco ! 

Francisco. Pray, who is he ? — Have at you, sir. 

Chatterto7i. Forbear ! 

First Ge?ttle?nan. I will not fight with you. 

Chatterton. \_To Francisco. '\ Come, sir, withdraw ; 
For though your knightly purpose is not hid, 
No champion shall uphold my challenge, sir : 
This quarrel is my own. 

Phillips. O Tom, dear Tom ! 

Francisco. Well, be it so ; and you — you popinjay ! 
If you but bleed this boy, tell o'er your beads : 
You are as good as dead. — Make room for them ; 
No movement and no sound. Salute ! salute ! 

First Girl. He shall not fight ! 

'Second Girl. No, no ! 

First Gentleman. I will not fight. 

Chatterton. \_To Francisco. '\ 
He fears but you : please leave the gardens, sir ; 
My honour is at stake. 

Francisco. Not with an ass. 

I'll teach you how to change from tierce to carte 

134 



/IDar^ 1ReC>clitfe. [act iv. 

With speed of lightning in its dazzling stroke ; 
And you can kill him at your leisure, lad. 

First Gentleman. We'll drink a quart of arrack, and 
then part 
As gentlemen by error made fast friends. 

Francisco. Reserve your wine for your Dutch cour- 
age. — Go ! 
And take the baggage with you. Do not pause : 
My bloodless sword is blushing in its sheath. 

First Girl. It is Francisco ! 

Second Girl. Or the devil sure ! 

Francisco. Either may be Truth's minister. — Begone! 
[^Exeunt the macaronis and the girls. 

Barthelemon. \_Tremblingly to Chatterton.~\ 
Ze music vill be soft. Adieu ! adieu ! \Exit. 

Chatterton. A great musician and, perforce, a fool. 

Francisco. Put up your sword. When you salute, 
my boy, 
I'd rather be your foemen than your friend : 
I nearly lost an eye. You must be taught 
The art of fawning or the art of fence ; 
For a manly temper and an awkward sword 
Are dangerous companions. 

Chatterton. I owe you much, 

And thank you from my heart. 



Act IV.] zbc :Bart) ot 



Phillips, A thousand thanks ! 

Francisco. ' Odsfish ! I would have done as much for 
sport. 

Phillips. If you but knew the value — ■ 

Francisco. I will learn. 

\Then turning to Chatterton.'\ 
You are so young and are so full of life, 
My eyes begin to sparkle with your youth. 
Tell me your hopes that I may live again 
My days of esperance. — Sit down, my lads. 
\^Then after they are seated. ~\ 
Will you have wine ? 

Phillips. I seldom drink it, sir. 

Francisco. And you ? 

Chatterton. My father drowned in that red flood — 
No wine for me. 

Francisco. Peace to his spirit, lad. — 

I, too, abstain ; for tippling interferes 
So rudely with my business, which needs haste, 
And would be ruined by a muddled mind. — 
You live in London ? 

Chatterton. I was born in Bristol ; 

But left that sordid place three months ago. 
Since then I have been writing vigorous truths 

136 



/iDar^ 1ReC)clttfe^ [act iv. 

For Wilkes and Liberty against King George 
And his Scotch favourites. 

Francisco. You wrote in verse ? 

Chatterton. Partly in verse, but mostly in vile prose : 
My Muse was virgin till she came to town. 

Francisco. Were you successful ? 

Chatterton. I was nearly made, 

And soon would have been haled unto the Tower ; 
But Lord Mayor Beckford died and dashed my hopes. 
Fell is in King's Bench, Hamilton is mean, 
And all the other publishers are prudes 
From recent prosecutions. — Were Fate to break 
The silvered promise of this moonlit night, 
I should be like young Harry Wildfire, sir : 
Throned on a broken chair within an inch 
Of a thunder-cloud. 

Francisco. That cloud must never burst. — 

Have you no poems with you ? 

Chatterton. \Taking out manuscripts. '\ Four or five : 
The Balade of Charitie and several more. 

Francisco. Entrust them to me \ they shall be returned 
Within a fortnight. Where do you reside ? 

Chatterton. At Mrs. Angell's, Brooke Street, Holborn, 
sir. 

137 



Act IV.] ube IBarD ot 



Francisco. I have a friend, the Reverend Dr. Fry, 
My college chum though we are far apart. — 
Why are you here to-night ? 

Chatterton. Well, you must know 

That I have written poems in Old English. 

Francisco. I knew you were a poet from the first ; 
For fire runs liquid in your nether eye. 

Chatterton. To all the world and to a man that owns 
A private press to give them to the world, 
Those poems are antique. That man is here 
With her who holds me past the fold of dreams ; 
And my Burletta will unveil the truth. 
The songs are mine — be bounteous, you stars ! 
This night is mine ! — I should have killed that fop 
Had he been master of all tricks of fence ! 

Francisco. \_Pouring out a glass of wine and rising. ] 
To Thomas Chatterton and his success. 
Captain Francisco drinks with thirsty soul 
His first and his last glass of wine ! 

Phillips. Francisco \ 

Chatterton. I thought as much. How is it that you 
bear 
The name of one who levied toll on Metz 
In sage Agrippa's day? 

Francisco. I stole it, lad, 

138 



ffbav^ IReDcliffe^ [act iv. 

From that bold bandit to conceal my own, 

An honoured name made so by sack and slaughter.— 

You've read Agrippa? 

Chatterton. Paracelsus, too ; 

And Count Gabalis, who in part reveals 
The mystic People of the Elements. 

Francisco. I have not read his treatise. 

Chatterton. It describes 

The Gnomes, composed of subtlest parts of earth. 
Guardians of treasures, mines, and precious stones 
In subterranean realms ; the Salamanders, 
Born of pure fire and dancing in its flames, 
Of wondrous beauty both in wit and form. 
Though, like the poets, they have been maligned 
By those that knew them not ; the watery Nymphs, 
Fairer than Fancy ever paints the fair. 
Running with rippling laughter to the sea 
And lolling on its roll at liquid ease ; 
The Sylphs, the rarest atoms of the air. 
Basking in rainbows, drifting on the clouds 
Like dreams above our state, or in the sweep 
And swirl of wintry tempests, howling loud — 
The wolves of the wind ; for they are soulless things 
Till in a maiden's passionate embrace 
They find immortal life. — You smile at this ? 

139 



Act IV.] Ube Bar^ of 



What is to-day and was not in the past 
Has always been ; and what will be is now. 
The found is true, the undiscovered false — 
That is the world's religion. 

Francisco. But not mine, 

Though threefold wrapped within Tartarean shade. — 
Give me your purse. 

Chatterton. ' Tis lean as lustful Amnon ; 

For all that this Burletta brought was spent 
On gifts and dress. Were I a poet true, 
I would not squander so much on my back 
When my dear head is needy. — Take it, sir. 

\Throws his purse upon the table. 

Francisco. Six shillings and three pennies. 

Chatterton. Nine — ill luck ! 

Og, King of Bashan, was nine cubits high. 

Fra?icisco. I'll take a penny : it shall interest 
bear. 
Though you are now the richer of the two. 

[Returns the purse and rises to depart. 

Chatterton. Would I could utter the Mirific word 
To summon angels with its wave of sound ! 
Be well advised ; you stand against the world, 
And Chance is fickle to her fondlings, sir. 

140 



/iDar^ IRebclttfe* [act iv. 

Francisco. [ Taking a phial of poison from his pocket. ] 
When she proves false, and it may be to-night, 
They shall ride fast that overtake me, lad. 

Chatter ton. [Snatching the phial from his hand^ 
I'll have this for my penny ! 

Francisco. A fair exchange : 

Powder is ruder but it breaks the shell. 

Chatterton. You must not keep the devil in your pay ; 
For there are moments when God seems to sleep. 
And they are hard to pass through. 

Francisco. More than hard. 

Chatterto?t. I'll earn enough for both. 

Francisco. Inspiring boy ! 

May nothing harsher than a moonbeam fall 
Athwart your path. — Good-bye. [Fxit Francisco. 

Chatterton. I'll save him yet ; 

For peerless charity God dare not damn. 
And it is still triumphant in his breast ; 
And I will beat him, too, at play with foils. — 
Sit down, dear Phillips : we must have a talk. 
Mother is well, you say ? 

Phillips. As when you left. 

Chatterton. I would that she were here to share my 
glory. 

141 



Act IV.] ube JSar^ of 



I could not bear that you should be away ; 

My mother loves me, but you know me, friend. — 

The presents were received ? 

Phillip. Yes, all of them. 

Chatterton. How did she like the cups and saucers, 
Phillips ? 

Phillips. She laughed and wept with joy. 

Chatterton. I would have sent 

A china tea-pot and a cream -pot, too, 
But they are not in fashion, I believe : 
Red china, which she has, is more the mode. 

Phillips. The snuff-box won the favour of her eye. 

Chatterton. It is right French and very curious. 
The silver fan, the graver of the two. 
Was meant for her ; the other one for Mary. 
Sis would have chosen purple flowered with gold. 
But purple and pink are more genteel and lively. 

Phillips. She was well pleased. 

Chatterton. And what did granny say 

About the twisted pipes and herb tobacco ? 

Phillips. She sat down in the ingle-nook that night, 
And did the smoking for the blazing logs 
Till we peered at each other through a fog. 

Chatterton. Did Uncle Richard get his walking-stick ? 

Phillips. Not till your mother had displayed the gifts 

142 



/IDarp 1ReC)Cltffe^ [act iv. 

To all the neighbours, saying to each one 
' See what my son has sent to us.' 

Chatterton. Dear Mother ! — 

What is there new in Bristol ? 

Phillips. Thistlethwaite 

Is now head-master of the Colston School. 

Chatterton, He played at Brag most shrewdly foul and 
won. 
We will eat passion-flower and die of laughing 
At all beflattered fools ! 

Phillips. He would be naught 

Beside the matchless fervour of your mind, 
Were you not haughty to those holding power. 

Chatterton. Let me not live till I grow politic. 
Have you no news more helpful ? 

Phillips. Only this — 

'Tis of myself. 

Chatterton. Oh, tell me of yourself ! 

Phillips. Well— well— I fear— 

Chatterton. Am I not part of you, 

And do you hesitate? You wrong us both. 

Phillips. I scarce know how — 

Chatterton. Think to yourself aloud. 

Phillips. I loved your sister Mary from the time — 

Chatterton. You are betrothed ? 

143 



Act IV.] Ube Bar^ ot 



FhilHps. We are. 

Chatterton. The moon is full, 

And unleashed billows bound and bay with joy ! 
You will be brother to me in the law 
As you have been in love. — My brother Phillips ! 
\_Seizes his hand and Phillips coughs. '\ 
You have a cough ! — I learned enough of physic 
From William Barrett to cure current ills. 
If you neglect your health you hazard mine ; 
For you are needful as this fleshly frame 
To stay my spirit's flight : I almost die 
In your imagined death. 

Phillips. The cold is slight ; 

The tears and yearning for the lost be mine. 

E7iter Walpole, Bertha, and Burgum. 

Walpole. How scrub these gardens are ! But for the 
lamps, 
'T would be a common night. 

Bertha. Not so to me. 

Walpole. Great Youth, my child, feels with poetic limbs 
And sees with poetic eyes ; but Art must be 
As plumb as Abishag to warm me now. — 
There's Chatterton. 

Burgum. I must consult with him 

About my Pedigree and Coat-of-arms. 

144 



/iDar^ IRe^cllffe^ [act iv. 

Walpole. When does your play begin ? 

Chatterton. In half an hour ; 

It follows the Welsh harpist. 

Walpole. Is it brief? 

Chatterton. x\s brief as patience. 

Walpole. Then it is not long. 

Chatterton. A Locke in logic ! 

Walpole. \_Turning to Bertha.'\ He is very rough. 

Bertha. The question was not polished, 

Walpole. True, indeed : 

Each author is laconic to himself. — 
Tell us the plot. 

Chatterton. The scene of my Burletta 

Is on Mount Olympus 'mong the heathen gods, 
And Cupid is the culprit — he writes verse. 

Walpole. Poetry is gone to bed or into prose : 
I fear it is all fustian. 

Chatterton. Have no fear : 

It is all fustian ; but, like Hamlet's play, 
Its purpose is poetic — that is all. 
Come, Phillips, to prepare it for the King. 

[Exeunt Chatterton and Phillips. 

Walpole. Follow him closely, sir, if you wish sane 
Coherent answers ; for his looks and speech 
Border on Moorfields now. 

10 145 



Act IV.] Uhc Barb ot 



Burgum. That is most wise. \_Exit Burgiim. 

Walpole. We'll sit near Milton, for the bard is 
blind. 

Bertha. One sense deposed flies to another's aid; 
And he is listening. 

Walpole. Delicately keen 

As Madame de Sevigne ! yet you choose 
To bloom in desert air, like friend Gray's flower. 

Bertha. Flowers in their clime and maidens in their 
sphere 
Are wards of Nature. 

Walpole. Bravo! the chef-d'oeuvre 

Of wit and eloquence, but not of truth ; 
For genial strangeness in a foreign soil 
Oft quickens plants and mortals. At the Castle 
My large laburnums pass their Alpine sires, 
As do my orange trees their tropic kin. 

Bertha. \_Pointi7ig to one of the orange trees. '\ 
Behold my witness with its hollowed fruit 
Aglow, like sin, with artificial light. — 
'Twill soon be cast aside. 

Walpole. True but not apt ; 

For words felicitous may falsely shine. 
Our poets, following the Romans, sing 
Of cooling breezes in the summer's warmth ; 

146 



/IDarp IReDcltffe* [act iv. 

But Zephyr here becomes a north-east wind, 
And our best sun is made of Newcastle coal. 

Bertha. Put out the sun and see. 

Walpole. \_Laughing.~\ I own defeat 

In rhetoric but not reason, Lady Clever, 
And, flying from all figures, shall be frank. 
Last month at Stowe, attendant on the Princess, 
I could not help comparing you, my dear. 
In mind and beauty and the flush of youth. 
With Lady Temple, Lady Mary Coke, 
Lady Anne Howard and a dozen dames. — 
You are a star unsphered. 

Bertha. Then, like a star, 

I shall glide twinkling in an orbit strange 
Till custom make it mine. — And now, dear sir, 
Kindly make choice of some more worthy theme. 

Walpole. Nay, by your leave ; for I have waited long 
To bring this subject on the tapis, my love. 
[The sounds of a Welsh harp are heard.'] 
Erato strikes her lyre ! 

Bertha. Court gallantry ! 

Walpole. Listen ; and let not modesty deny 
What candour must approve. You have rare wit 
And beauty coupled with a feline form 
Whose every movement breeds a fond desire : 

147 



Act IV.] ube Barb ot 



Wit needs applause and beauty needs a glass ; 
And these are not in Bristol but in London 
Among the leisured few. You shall o'erpeer 
The proudest lords and ladies in the land ; 
You shall meet Gray, a gentlemanly bard 
That leans not on eccentric dress or phrase, 
Like stuttering Goldsmith or the beastly Johnson ; 
You shall put Rowley's poems into print; 
Nourish wild Chatterton, if so you please, 
And watch his weedy growth ; though I admit 
That, in the witching atmosphere you shed, 
I hope to win your sanction and the world's 
With chiming numbers and with tolling prose ; 
For, though I say it, I am not untried. 

Be7iha. How can I work these wonders ? 

Walpole. By a word — 

A ^ yes ' to one small question. 

Bertha. Ask it, sir. 

Walpole. Will you be mine? — pardon, may I be 
yours ? 

Bertha. A step with Folly means a dangerous stroll ! 
I think you know, sir, that I am surprised. 

Walpole. Whate'er you say I know; be you as trust- 
ful. 

Bertha. I'll be as true. 

148 



/IDar^ 1Re^cltffe♦ [act iv. 

Walpole. Why did I hear with patience 

That Ode to Freedom by a prentice read ? 
Why did I linger long in tiresome Bristol ? 
Why did I tice your father to my house ? 
Why have I borne the insults of that boy, 
And now am here to patron his Burletta ? 

Bertha. I dread the answer. 

Walpole. 'Twas for you, for you. 

Bertha. My indiscretion is so near a crime, 
Who will believe me guiltless ? 

Walpole. Your servant, lady. 

Bertha. I did not purpose to mislead — 

Walpole. To guide. 

Bertha, The years between us — 

Walpole. Are a stony brook 

Across which you can step with gathered skirts 
And wet nor boots nor lace. Appraise these truths : 
My love is not the sparrow-hawk of youth, 
Which seizes wit and beauty as its due. 
But like an eagle — constant, strong, and poised. 
I have the wealth and station to command 
Whate'er prolongs life's spring and makes it lush, 
And you are in your flower. A younger man 
Must struggle blindly through a yellow fog. 
Dragging you with him in his mad pursuit 

149 



Act IV.] ube :fi5ar^ of 



Till all desire has flown the weary heart 
And damning wrinkles come. 

Bertha. Two souls ne'er love 

Till scars record the battles won together. 

Walpole. Some scars I have that tell of conflicts past ; 
And there are victories still for us to gain 
From knightly foemen, not from howling mobs 
With brutal bludgeons armed. And when peace comes. 
Like sunset's glow, I shall not be too old 
For the enchantment of a maiden's voice 
Or wildest rapture in her trembling arms. 

Bertha. Oh, whither are we drifting ? 

Walpole. Ask not whither : 

Love laughs at harbours and the future, dear. 
When in his gondola beneath the moon 
On music-laden waters. 

Bertha. We waste words : 

I could not be your wife. 

Walpole. No, not my wife 

Till some slight obstacles have been removed. 
For what we scorn is potent in our lives ; 
But formal marriage is a fool's device 
Wisely to govern fools. 

Bertha, [Rising excitedly. '\ Your mistress, then, 

Walpole. My wife in all save name. 



/iDari? IRebclttfe* [act iv. 

Bertha. Your paramour ? 

Walpole. Love is Love's only name in English, love, 

Bertha. I would that Hatred had a single term. 
That I could ease my bosom with a word, 
For loathing chokes me ! 

Walpole. \_Rising in alarm.~\ Compose yourself, I 
beg. 

Bertha. And I have listened ! 

Walpole. Listen to the end. 

My father had a mistress whom he wed 
When time and circumstance approved the act ; 
But ere the nuptials I esteemed their child 
My rightful sister. 

Bertha. She shared not the shame. 

Walpole. Chaste country morals have no place at 
court ; 
For peers have privilege wisely held from boors. 
Who slabber gravy like roast beef new cut, 
And must be tethered as promiscuous bulls 
Reserved for breeding are. 

Bertha. I'll hear no more : 

My ears have been defiled ! 

Walpole. \_Embradng her.'\ You must consent. 

Bertha. Oh, let me go ! 

Walpole. When you have promised, sweet. 

151 



Act IV.] ube Barb of 



Bertha. Stop ! I will rouse the gardens with my 
cries ! 

Enter Francisco masked, 

Francisco. Good evening, Horry ! — You appear per- 
turbed. 
Kisses patch quarrels with a light-o' -love. 

Walpole. \As Bertha sinks upon the seat."] 
You wear a mask — this is not a ridotto. 

Francisco. We all wear masks ; for life is a ridotto. 

Walpole. I do not know you, sir. 

Francisco. A plague on fame ! 

Captain Francisco at your service, sir. 

Walpole. Captain Francisco ! 

Francisco. Am I still unknown ? 

Walpole. Do not alarm the lady. 

Francisco. Not to find 

The Fount of Youth and Water-Stone of the Wise ; 
Though she, I fear, is past her virgin fright. 
Or giddy Lust has mounted to your head 
And left your body stingless. 

Bertha. Spare me, sir. 

Walpole. Help here ! thieves ! thieves ! 

Francisco. \_Seizing him by the throat.'^ 

That Welshman saved your life : 
Had you been heard, you had not croaked again. 

152 



/iDari? IReOcUffe* [act iv. 



Bertha. He's unprepared ! 

Francisco. And will be to his death, 

Though he should rival Enoch's yeared son. — 
Your purse. Be quick ! I have the Spanish heart 
Which Aztec gold allays. 

Walpole. \_Givi?ig up his purse. ~\ There ; leave us, sir. 

Francisco. The lady's purse: you shall buy her an- 
other, 
And keep it plenteous as the fabled horn. 
Age must pay dear to see his wrinkled face 
Reflected in the amorous eyes of Youth, 
Or lie with Dreams. \_Takes Bertha^ s purse. 

Walpole. You have our purses — go. 

Francisco. [Passing his hand over his eyes.'\ 
My eyes are bloodshot — ah, that garnet stone ! 
I have the sulphur, you may well believe, 
But lack the gem for Paracelsian salve. 
\_Takes Walpole' s pin. '\ 
Your snuff-box and your rings. — God's death ! be 

quick : 
To dawdle o'er a gift makes taking theft. 
\Takes the snuff-box and the rings. ~\ 
Were you alone, I'd strip you naked, sir. 
And let the world behold the shrunken skin 
That cloaks your meagre soul. 

153 



Act IV.] Zbc Barb of 



Walpole. Now you have all. 

Francisco. That bracelet, lady. 

Bertha. Any thing but that : 

'Twas given me — 

Fraticisco. I take it is a gift. 

\The7i after examining it.~\ 

Rare Roman coins — the dangling themes for song ! 
And I know one who can their tinkling turn 
To canticles that would make Tiber thrill 
And dream his halcyon days were come again. 
I rob you, lady, to enrich the Muse. — 
That plain gold band. 

Bertha, My mother's wedding-ring ! 

Francisco. Keep it and use it as your mother did. 
\A bell rings. '\ 

The boy's Burletta ! — He must have the stage. 
'Odsfish ! I would not bring the youngster's play 
In contrast with the gaudy scenes of life 
Before a throng of worldlings ; so adieu. 
May you be wealthier, sir, when next we meet 
Is your poor servant's prayer. \Exit Francisco, 

Bertha. I feel ashamed 

As if I were the shameless thing he named. 

Walpole. But hear me. 

Bertha, Take me to my father, sir. 

154 



/iDar^ IRebcltffe* [act iv. 

Walpole. Have mercy, lady ! I was crazed with love. 

Bertha. Call you that love ? — True Love would die of 
love 
Ere he would base his love with lawless glance. 

Walpole, Law can not pasture Nature on green 
baize. 
Fate is to blame : had consequences smiled, 
I would have offered you — 

Bertha. I've heard enough : 

To parley with seduction is to fall. — 
I'll find my father, sir, without your aid. 

Enter Chatterton, Phillips, Burgum, and the 
People. 

Walpole. Delay revenge, if you must have revenge 
On one whose passion leaped the pale of pride : 
'Twould ruin his Burletta ! — There he comes. 

Chatterton. The curtain soon will rise ; prepare your- 
selves. 
I'll keep the moblings in their proper tier. 
Sit on this bench ; I'll clarify the plot. 
\Drags the seat round and then speaks to the people. '\ 
Stand back ; beyond this line of vision, please ! 

Voice from crowd. I paid a half-crown for the right 
to see ! 

Chatterton. Nay, sir, you bought a pint of Frontiniac 

155 



Act IV.] Zbc IBart) ot 



In the Rose of Normandy and own all France. 

A jub of ale would give you title clear 

To this fair Isle in fee. \The people laugh. 

GirV s Voice. What is the price 

Of boyish kisses, sweet? 

Chatterton. Your virtue^ dear. [Laughter. 

Woman's Voice. His eyes be bright as Peggy-wi'-t'- 
wisp, 
But bring me some as can kiss me wi' might. 

Chatterton. How are the Yorkshire yokels ? 

\Laughter. 

Man' s Voice. With that sword 

He looks like a fly empaled upon a pin. 

Chatterton. Be not amazed, old rump-steak, at my 
presence : 
Flies have the sense of smell, and you are high. 

\Laughter. 

GirV s Voice. He is Love's pet ! 

Woman' s Voice. I'd give my cat for him ! 

Chatterton. An old maid sure, or she would have a dog. 
[Laughter as the music begins. ~\ 
The play is on ! Be silent, gentle friends. 
And keep good-humoured like an English crowd ; 
For we are on Olympus with the gods ! 

[The curtain rises disclosing the top of Mount Olym- 

156 



/IDar^ IRe^clttte* [act iv. 

pus with Jupiter ^ Juno, Apollo, Venus, Bacchus, 
and other gods and goddesses seated on the 
clouds. 
Chorus. [Air.] 

Scrape, ye fiddlers, tinkle, tinkle, 
Music makes my twinklers twinkle ; 

Humming, 

Thrumming, 

Groaning, 

Toning, 

Squeaking, 

Shrieking, 

Bawling, 

Squalling, 
O the sweet charms of tinkle, tinkle ! 

Jupiter. \_Recitative .] 
Now by the muddy waters of the Styx, 
Which, like the Avon, tempers fools and bricks, 
No music cheers me now. [ Weeps. 

Chorus. Why this excretion ? 

Sorrow finds solace only in repletion. 

Jupiter. Fair Semele is dead ! 
Chorus. Alas ! alas ! 

That godless things on earth should come to pass. 

Jupiter. She melted in my arms. 

Ju7io. She froze, you mome, 

Or you were warmer than you are at home. 



Act IV.] ubc Barb ot 



Jupiter. Nor can my wife this burning grief assuage, 
For Juno's forty thousand years of age. 

Jmio. But twenty-seven thousand, you old brute ! 
And lustier than your thundership to boot. 

Jupiter. To twenty-seven women cling till fifty : 
In years, and only years, our wives are thrifty. 

Juno. \_Air,'\ 

I will never tamely bear 

All these wrongs and slights, sir ; 
Heaven and all the gods shall hear 
How you spend your nights, sir. 

Drinking, swearing, 

Roaring, tearing, 
Wenching, roving everywhere ; 

Whilst poor I 

At home must lie, 

Wishing, scheming. 

Sighing, dreaming. 
Grasping nothing but the air. 

Wo7narC s Voice. Jove's very like my husband ! 
Women' s Voices. And like mine. \_Laughter. 

Jupiter. \Recitative. ] 
Hence, thou eternal tempest, from our regions. 
And yell in concert with infernal legions ! 

Bacchus. \_Staggeri7tg and holding aloft his bowl.'] 
'Odsniggers, Sire ! I know your sad condition, 
And I will be your majesty's physician. 



/iDarp TRebcUtfe, [act iv. 

Man^ s Voice. That's Bacchus with a bowl of royal- 
bob ! [Laughter. 

Bacchus. [Air.] 

Fill the bowl and fill it high, 
Vast as the extended sky ! 
Since the dire disease is known 
Wine's the balm to cure the wound. 

Jupiter. I Recitative.] 
You hogshead of liquor and its bitter lees ! 
Nor wine nor brandy now can give me ease 
Chorus. Cure him, Apollo ! 

Apollo. Sire, at your desire, 

I'll strike my lyre, and light your wonted fire. 

Jupiter, That rimes too glibly to be more than gab ; 
The modern Muse is nothing but a drab, 

Venus. Cupid, my liege, awaits your royal pleasure 
To chant some verses writ in modern measure. 
Jupiter. \Laughing.'\ Cupid write poems ? — he is but a 

boy ! 
Venus. Boys frequent add to our celestial joy. 
Jupiter. 'Tis Cupid not Adonis. — Well, my dear, 
I can deny you naught : let him appear ; 
But have the arrows taken from the wight. 
For I have no fair partner for the night. 

\A cloud parts and Cupid with a manuscript appears 
Chorus. That boy a poet ! 

159 



Act IV.] Ube 3Barb ot 



Venus. Hearken to his lay. 

Cupid. Peace, heavenly rakes and strumpets, or away! 
Jupiter. Begin the reading ; not another word ; 
But for fond Venus, you had not been heard. 

Cupid. [ Unrolling his manuscript and chanting^ 

The pleasing sweets of spring and summer past, 
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast. 

Burgum. That's Chatterton's rendering of de Berg- 
ham's song ! 

Cupid. The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold, 
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold, — 
Jupiter, Enough ! enough ! 
Chorus. \_Scornfully.'] The silver joys of grass! 
Cupid. You gods are geese and Jupiter's an ass ! 
Venus. Be calm, dear Cupid. 

Jupiter. [Feeling in his pockets.^ By my horrid head, 
If I find thunderbolt, I'll strike you dead ! 

Cupid. You can make poets suffer but not die. 
Jupiter. I can not kill a poet ? — boy, you lie ! 
\^Then after a fruitless search^ 
Juno has robbed my breeches over night. 
And I am thunderless and powerless quite. 

Cupid, If my poor lay excite your regal scorn, 
I have a Titan's song — a Titan born 
Ere you, my liege, were suckled by a goat. 
Jupiter. A Titan's song ! — I long to hear each note. 

1 60 



/iDari^ IRebclitre* [act iv. 

Cupid. Make me invisible but for a minute, 
And I will show your godship what is in it. 
Jupiter. Be thou unseen. 

Cupid. Have stringed music sound. 

Jupiter. Cease singing, and let Bacchus' bowl go round. 
[ While the bowl is passing from immortal to immortal^ 
Cupid runs a quill over the parchment. 

Chatterton. He antiquates the spelling ! 
[ Cupid rubs something on it. ] 

That is ochre, 
Gilding it like the Phrygian touch of Age. 
[ Cupid sprinkles it with a powder. ] 
That's charcoal counterfeiting cindered years. 
[ Cvpid crumples it in his hands. ] 
It must have creases or it is not old. 
[ Cupid throws it upon the ground and runs his foot 

over it. ] 
It must be dusty or it lacks desert. — 
Were he in Hades, he would smoke it, too ! 

Francisco. [ Wlio has stood in the background unseen.'\ 
Olympus now will echo with acclaim. 

Walpole. \Turning and seeing him.~\ 
Arrest that villain ! He fleeced me to-night — 
Francisco is his name ! 

The People. Francisco ? — oh ! 

II i6i 



Act IV.] Ube BarD ot 



[ General consternation. The men cry out '■ Fran- 
cisco ! ' the women scream, and the actors scurry 
from the stage. Francisco claps a mask on his 
face, draws a pistol, and steps into the open 
space. 
Francisco. Who will arrest Francisco, when the gods 
Run skimper scamper from their sacred mount 
At mention of his name ? 

Bu7-gum. In the King's name — 

Francisco. May you and George the Third be damned 

together, 
A Girl. The rogue is comely. 
Francisco. [Drawing her to him and kissing her.~\ 

And your lips are ripe. 
Now boast that once Francisco kissed you, dear. 
Man^ s Voice. A dozen rush upon him ! 
Woman^ s Voice. No, I beg ! 

He gave us money when we were in need. 
Man' s Voice. He helped me in distress ! 
Girr s Voice. He rescued me ! 

Chatterton. Away with speed ; you are in danger 

here ! 
Francisco. The risk is slight ; for mobs are headless 

things. 
Chatterton. But my Burletta — 

162 



/iDari? TRe^cIttfe* [act iv. 

Francisco. Pardon me^ my lad. 

Horry should die for this, were it not better 
To let the gouty creature draw his breath 
Till every step discharges shooting pains 
And chalk-stones issue from his swelled hands. — 
Good-night, my friends ; to follow me is death. \jE,xit. 
Chatterton. Recall the actors. 
Walpole. I have heard enough. 

[ The scream and bursting of a rocket are heard. 
The People. Fireworks ! fireworks ! 

\_Exeunt the People. 
Chatterton. The play is overthrown. 

Walpole. I know its purport. 
Chatterton. It shall be made clear : 

I am old Rowley, and his works are mine ! 

\The hoofs of Francisco' s horse galloping away are 
heard. 
Walpole. I will not trust one that consorts with 

thieves, 
Chatterton. You shall have proof. 
Walpole. 'Tis woven in the songs ; 

And Gray and Mason shall unravel them. 
I'll call on you and tell you their report. 

Bertha. Old Rowley's works are yours? — Do not 
profane 

163 



Act IV.] UbC JBaV^ Of 



The awful silence of a minstrel's tomb, 
And from his pulseless temples tear the wreath 
Of mortal frailty and of deathless song. — 
Twice have I been most rudely undeceived : 
Take me, dear father, from these gardens, please ! 

[ Throtvs herself sobbing into her father' s arms. 
Chatterton. By my dead father's memory — 
Phillips. Tom, not now : 

You shall convince them when the time is meet. 

Burgum. I'll to the Heralds' College in the morn- 
ing. 
Bertha. Take me away — my sight begins to reel ! 
Walpole. Have courage, lady. — To the carriage, 
quick ! 

\Exeunt Walpole , Burgum, and Bertha. 
Chatterton. Damn Saturn's searing rays ! — I am un- 
done. 
Is this the fruitage of my nurtured dreams ? 
Are these the purple berries and green leaves 
Enwreathed in nectared fragrance for the brow 
Of immortal child among immortal men ? — 
I will write scurvy things to make hell laugh, 
And gain in lust what I have lost in love. 

\_Sinks down by the table and bows his head upon 
his arms. 

164 



/iDar^ IRebcUffe. [act iv. 

Phillips. [Putting his arm round hi?n.~\ Dear 

Thomas ! 
Chatterton. [Raising his head.'\ Phillips, were it not 
for you — 
O my dear brother, were it not for you ! 

[An explosion of fireivorks and the shouts of the 
people are heard j the gardens are lighted by the 
glow ; and Chatterton, mastering his emotion, 
rises quickly. "^ 
Come, Phillips, let us see the fireworks play. 

Curtain, 



i6S 



Act v.] XTbe BarD ot 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene. — Chattertofi^ s lodging, A garret in the house of 
Mrs. Angellf London, The floor is bare; the roof 
slopes to a casement at the back; and a door^ at the 
lefty opens on the stairs. Near the casement is a 
small bedstead; and not far from the doorway are 
rude chairs and a table, on which are a lighted 
lamPy a few old books , an inkhorn, and quills and 
manuscripts in disorder. Many scraps of paper are 
on the floor by the table. At the opposite side of the 
room is a wash-stand ; and near it are a 7nirror, a 
large deal-box , and a chair on which is the suit of 
silk worn by Chatter ton in Mary le bone Gardens. 
On the rise of the curtain, the moonlight is stream- 
ing over the roofs of the houses into the room; and 
Mrs. Angell and her two children, Harry and 
Bertha, are discovered. Mrs. Angell is sweepings 
Harry is brandishing the poef s sword, and Bertha 
is scrawling with a quill at the table. It is the 
night of August 24th, 1770, 

166 



ffbav^ 1Re^clttfe. [act v. 

WaUhnan. [From the street.'] Past nine o'clock 
and a moonlit night ! Past nine o'clock and a 
moonlit night ! 
Mrs. Angell. Be careful, or you'll overturn the ink 
And blot his poems ! 

Harry. What are poems, mother? 

Mrs. Angell. They are like hymns : at least the lines 
begin 
With capitals ; and those who write them starve. 
Bertha. I'll write a hymn. 
Mrs. Angell. Give me that sword at once. 
He was so happy when he showed me this, 
And told me of the things that he would buy 
For his dear mother ; but the boy is down : 
They never should have let him go from home. 
Harry. I'll go away some day. 
Bertha. May I go, too ? 

Mrs. Angell. The bed has not been used ; and all he 
wrote 
Is torn in pieces. 

\_As Mrs. Angell picks up the hits of paper ^ Harry 
goes to the deal-box, opens it, and takes out several 
manuscripts. 
Enter Chatterton, who stands in the doorivay. 
Harry, Mother, what are these ? 

167 



Act v.] Ube 3Barb ot 



Mrs. AngelL Put them away ! Were Chatterton to 
come, 
He would be as furious as he was the time 
Your father told him of a vacant clerkship. 

Bertha. I'll tear my poem, too. \Tears up a paper. 

Mrs. AngelL \_Takmg the pieces out of her hands. '\ 

You naughty girl. 
You have destroyed his work ! 

Bertha. He tears them up. 

Mrs. AngelL What can be done? 

Chatterton. \_Coming down.'\ Do not reprove the 
child : 
Her little fingers are at school. 

Mrs. AngelL [In alarm.~\ O sir ! — 

Chatterton. The song is worthless. 

Mrs. AngelL As you were not in, 

I came to sweep the room ; for once you said 
That poets hated brooms. 

Chatterton. Uncleanly beasts ! — 

Did any letters come ? 

Mrs. AngelL No, none at all. 

Chatterton. And no one called ? 

Mrs. AngelL I really can not say ; 

For I was not at home this afternoon. 

Chatterton. I trust your outing was a pleasant one. 

1 68 



/iDari? IRebcllttc^ [act v. 

Mrs, Angell. You should have seen the sunset, sir, 
to-day 
From Hampstead Heath. 

Chatterto7i. I saw a sunset once 

From Penpole Point near Bristol, looking 'cross 
The lowlands and the Severn into Wales : 
The globe descending bulged upon a peak, 
And, to my fire-intoxicated eyes, 
Became a golden punch-bowl for the gods \ 
Then, sinking deeper, made the verdant hills 
Volcanoes in eruption. — Do you smoke? 

Mrs. Angell. Why, what a question ! 

Chatterton. My grandmother smokes j 

My pate is but a pipe for puffing vapour ; 
And the iridescent token in the cloud 
Has faded to a fog-bow. — Close the casement ! 

Mrs. Angell. You are three-quarters famished : for 
two days 
You have not tasted food. 

Chatterton. I need no meat. 

Mrs. Angell. I'll fetch you oysters — any thing you 
crave. 

Chatterton. Tell o'er some viands, and I'll eat your 
words. 
I should not starve when I bequeath the world 

169 



Act v.] Ube Bar^ ot 



A magic board where centuries will feed 

Upon the fledgelings of my brooding brain, 

And drink the Burgundy within these veins. 

[Slaps his arm fiercely. ~\ 

But then I am a panther with a spot 

That wanes and waxes with the fitful moon, 

And must be prodded that I may display 

My jungle-nature. — Shut out the moonlight ! — please. 

\Then to Bertha as Mrs. Angell goes to the window. '\ 

Come, sweetheart, come. — Why does she turn away? 

Harry, She is ashamed. 

Chatter ton. Ashamed ? ashamed of what ? 

Harry. Because she has red hair. 

Chatterton. My hair is red. 

We'll put our heads together, and make a torch 
To warn benighted vessels from the Oilstones. 
What is her name ? 

Harry. Her name is Bertha, sir. 

Chatterton. Saint Mary ! — Come, tiny Bertha, come 
to me; 
You must not be afraid. 

Bertha. \_Going to him.'] I'm not afraid. 

[ Chatterton takes her in his arms and sits down by 
the table, 

170 



/iDar^ 1Re^clttte. [act v. 

Harry. No one but Mr. Cross has hair like hers ; 
And that makes mother angry. 

Mrs. Angell. Hold your tongue ! 

Chatterton. If I were rich, I'd dower you, little maid. 
\Fumbles amo?ig his papers and selects one. ] 
Here is my * Clifton ' : keep it till my death ; 
They will bid more for it than I have had 
In all my life. — Your hair is lovely, dear ; 
In sunlight it will glint more varied hues 
Than Cornish heath upon Goonhilley Downs. 
How old are you ? 

Bertha. I used to be five years, 

But now I'm six. 

Chatterton, When were you five, my girl ? 

Bertha. A long, long time ago. 

Chatterton. Young years are long. 

Mrs. Angell. Come, dears, before you tire the gen- 
tleman. 

Chatterton. Leave them with me ; I dread to be 
alone ; 
And children cheer me, for I ne'er was child. 
I'll learn their language and will think their thoughts. 
What shall we play, my love ? 

Bertha^ Why, any thing. 

171 



Act v.] TTbe Barb ot 



Chatterton. Let us play * church. ' 

Harry. I'll be the rector, then. 

Chatterton. I'll be the sexton, and inurn the dead. 
And you'll be Mary — that's the church itself. 

Mrs. Angell. And I ? 

Chatterton. Will be the churchyard for the poor. 

\Then glancing round.'\ 
This garret's very like the muniment room 
In Mary Redcliffe's porch. — At Whitsuntide, 
When the Cathedral bell was tolling midnight, 
I left old Rowley's work ; and, stealing down 
Into the tomb-paved chancel, placed six lights 
Upon the altar, and then knelt and prayed, 
With mailed spirits and their beauteous dames, 
The haughty rulers of a thousand years. 
Kneeling about me. 

Bertha. I don't like this game. 

Chatterton. You will, my dear, for you shall light the 
candles. 
\Takes a bundle of candles from a drawer in the table. '^ 
Your innocent touch will turn this fat to wax. 
Or Poverty must plead for dispensation. 
Light this, my child. \Bertha lights it at the lamp.'^ 

I'll stand it on this tome : 
There must be one above and two below. 

172 



/iDar^ IRe^cltffe. [act v. 

Another ; and another. \Bertha lights two more can- 
dles, and Chatterton places them so as to form a tri- 
angle^ Now three more. 
Harry. Let me light one. 

Chatterton. Nay, you shall blow them out. 

[Bertha lights three candles, a7id Chatterton forms an- 
other triangle on the opposite side of the table ^ 
The hilt of this bright dagger is the cross. 
\Sticks a dagger upright in the centre of the table. '\ 
With Mary Redcliffe lying at its foot. 
[Places a mi7iiature near the blade of the dagger. '\ 
Now is our altar perfect, with six fires. 
The number of perfection ; for its parts — 
Its half, its third, its sixth — produce itself : 
The number of production ; in six days 
This earth was made and man must labour six, 
The Hebrew slave six years obeyed his master. — 
Would that these candles were of wax from bees, 
The cleanest insects, to denote pure life, 
As their flames symbolise the Light of lights, 
The Beacon for the world \ and were ablaze 
Upon the altar of my soul to-night. 
Where rushes dipped in tallow flicker low. — 
I can not worship blindly in the dark ! 

173 



Act v.] XTbe :BarD ot 



Mrs. Angell. Do some thing else : this is no sport 

to you. 
Bertha. Let us play ' mother. ' 
Chatterton. I'll be grandfather, dear. 

Enter Captain Francisco. 
Francisco. The door was open, so I helped myself. 
Chatterton. \_Going to him and takiftg his hand.~\ 
You are most welcome. — We are playing games : 
These are my daughter and grandchildren, sir. 

Francisco. I will be Uncle Croesus to each one. — 
Your hand is feverish and your face is haggard. 
What is the matter ? Tell your uncle all. 
Mrs. Angell. The boy is starving, sir. 
Chatterton. No more of that. 

Seven days, 'tis said, a mortal can exist 
Without a bite of food : five more are left. 

Francisco. Come here, my chicks, and peck at yellow 
grain. 
\Throws a handful of sovereigns upon the floor, and 
the children scramble for them. Then to Chatter. 
tonJ\ 
Your mind is rare and gold is plentiful : 
No more of starving, lad. 

Bertha, That one was mine ! 

174 



/iDar^ IRebcUtfe^ [act v. 

Francisco. You bantam rooster, you should scratch 
for her. 
How many have you now ? 

Harry. One, two, three — six. 

Bertha. And I have only three. 

Mrs. Angell. You have enough. 

Francisco. [After giving three more coins to Bertha."] 
Now you have six. What will you do with them ? 

Bertha. I'll buy a baby. 

Harry. I will buy a sword. 

Francisco. Most aptly spoke according to the sex. 
Now mother gets the cage in which there are 
A few goldfinches left. [Gives a purse to Mrs. AngelL 

Mrs. Angell. You are too kind. 

Francisco. The pleasure of the gift is largely mine : 
I am your debtor, madam. 

Mrs. Angell. Come, my dears ; 

The gentlemen must wish to be alone. 

Chatterton. Will you not kiss me, Bertha, ere you go ? 

Mrs. Angell. [To Francisco.] God bless you, sir. 

Francisco. He knows my life too well. 

Bertha. [To Chatterton in a loud whisper.] 
I love you best. 

Francisco. And you love wisely, dear. — 

Good dreams or none, sweet sleep and joyous waking. 

175 



Act v.] Ube 3Bar^ ot 



Bertha. Good-night. 

Chatterton. Good-night. 

Harry. I'll race you down the stairs. 

\The children run out of the doorway down the steps y 

and are heard screaming ajtd laughing for a minute 

afterward. Francisco goes with Mrs. Angell to 

the door. 

Mrs. Angell. Your coming is a blessing to us all. 

Francisco, May it prove so. 

Chatterton. Amen. 

Francisco. Adieu. 

Mrs. Angell. [^As she leaves the room.^ Good-bye. 

Francisco. \_Turning and walking back to the table. "^ 
Oh, that a squall-like mood should wreck a life ! 
What you are suffering I have suffered, lad, 
Without your power. You know not what that means : 
Why, I speak Latin and can only steal. 
God's death ! let us be frank, nor care a groat 
How many angels can a footing find 
Upon a needle's point. Do not reply : 
Your reason is unshipped by want, my boy. 
And gusty words will blow you on Hell weathers. 
Let me do all the storming ; and I'll swear 
Like some old sea-dog with a salted soul ; 
Not at you, lad, but with you. 

176 



jflDar^ IRebcltffe* [act v. 

Chatterton. Bless you, sir. 

Francisco. A poet starving ! — by chameleon's liver 
Drenched with a lapwing's blood, it shall not be. 
There's food for flesh and there is food for fancy. 

[ Gives a purse and a bracelet to Chatterton, 

Chatterton. That's Walpole's purse ! and that is — 
pray, continue. 

Francisco. You are in need ? — why, you shall mount 
to fame. 
On gold and silver rungs, and at a sneeze 
Shall spit into the mouth of every toad 
That climbs upon a tree. Your pride is great ? — 
You give to me more than I can bestow : 
A goal ahead, which I have never had 
Since I at college took a double-first. 
And learned that learning is not power to do 
High Aspiration's bidding. It is nard 
To find your mind is but a levant sponge — 
To be a disappointment to yourself. 

Chattertofi. You are unjust to self. 

Francisco. I am unjust ; 

My mission's greater than I dreamed it was. 
Enter Mrs. Angell. 

Mrs. Angell. A gentleman is coming up the stairs. 

12 177 



Act v.] ubc :Baxb ot 



Chatterton. It must be Walpole : you have brought me 
luck! 
He said that he would call. 

Francisco. I'll walk apart. 

\^Goes to the window and stands with his back to 
the others. 

Enter Horace Walpole. 
Chatterton. Good evening, sir ; your coming is most 
kind. 
{Then to Mrs. Angell.'] 
You need not wait : I'll tend him down the steps. 

[Exit Mrs. Angell. 
Walpole. It is less hazardous to mount those steps 
Than to ascend Fraud's ladder. 

Chatterton. You should know. 

Walpole. A suzerain's banter, truly, from a serf; 
For though I value not my lustrous birth, 
Which has been more a hindrance than a help — 

Francisco. [ Coj7iing down with a black mask covering 
the upper part of his face. '\ You are a most insuf- 
ferable coxcomb. 
Walpole. [Starting up."] How dare you — oh! 
Francisco. That * oh ' expresses more 

Than any page you've penned. You should not 
pale, 

178 



/iDarp IRebcIttfe* [act v. 

Nor palm that spinel ruby in your frill : 
This roof is sacred and my promise whole. 

Walpole. What do you wish ? 

Francisco. To barter words with you. 

Walpole. My talk is only prattle. 

Francisco. Lucian wrote 

Of some Egyptian temple near the Nile, 
Painted and gemmed to shrine a jabbering ape 
That barked to mark the hours. — Do you tell time? 

Walpole. You are — what you must own yourself to be. 

Francisco. There Pride and Prudence claimed the 
right of way, 
And Pride went to the gutter. 

Walpole. You are so clever. 

Francisco. As we accept offensive facts as fun. 
Truth is a well of wit, whose waters pass 
Those of the * Dog and Duck. ' 

Walpole. [Sarcastically.^ I am o'ermatched. 

Francisco. Nay, we are equals, take us all in all. 

Walpole. 'Twould make me vain to think so ; really, 
sir. 

Francisco. You have forebears of caste and so have I ; 
You drink iced water and I quaff no wine ; 
I have a mistress, you have Kitty Clive, 
And Rumour says a girl named Burgum, too. 

179 



Act v.] trbe IBarb of 



Chatterton. Then Rumour lies ! She is as pure as 
Love 
Before the fall of man. 

Francisco. I am at fault ; 

And on remorseful knee I ask indulgence ; 
\_Sinks upon one knee and rises quickly^ 
For Rumour is as slanderously chaste 
As wanton saved by marriage from worse lot. 
But Horry ceded Cliveden to his Kitty. 

Walpole. You are but quibbling ; come now to the 
pith. 

Francisco. I borrow sparklers and make no return, 
And taking without giving is a theft. 
You have three patent places in your gripe ; 
You are the Usher of the Exchequer, sir. 
Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk of the Estreats ; 
And calmly purse four thousand pounds a year. 
For which the service rendered is mere form. 
I rob the rich, you rob the rich and poor ; 
I am an outlaw, but we both are thieves. 
Between us, sir, there is not much for choice. 

Walpole. I will not wrangle with a stultus pravus. 

Francisco. Fortuna nimium quem fovet stultum facit ; 
And Fortune favours you beyond desert. 
Like some fond mother with a foolish child ; 

i8o 



/iDar^ 1Re&clifre. [act v. 

For breathing earns you luxury and fame. 

But if you are learned and I am ignorant, 

Recall two proverbs centuries apart : 

A Greek says ^''AixaOia dpd<To<; 0^,o£c,' 

And some provincial Gaul, in musty voice, 

Cries ' Ignorance ne quiert pas prudence ! ' 

Wherefore a modern gives this sage advice, 

* II ne faut jamais affronter un sot. ' 

Shall we dispute in Spanish or in German ? 

God save us all, sir, from our mother tongue ! 

Walpole. You are, forsooth, a most amusing fellow. 

Francisco. A Fellow once of Balliol. 

Walpole. Oh, indeed ! 

Francisco. You must not patronise me with a drawl, 
Lest we should meet at midnight on the road. 
You well may startle ; stranger things have happed. — 
You have some dealing with this gifted boy, 
Who, with mere English, overtops us both : 
Be square or you shall rue it, sir. — Good-night. 

\Exit Francisco. 

Ink Man. [From the street.'] 
Come buy my writing ink ! Fine writing ink ! 

[Sings.] 

My ink is good, as black as jet, 
'Tis used by princes and their set ; 
i8i 



Act v.] XTbe IBatb ot 



If once you venture it to try, 

Of this I'm sure — none else you'll buy. 

Come buy my writing ink ! Fine writing ink ! 

Walpole. [After hearing a door below close.'\ 
Boon company, a cut-throat and a sharper. 

Chatterton. I beg of you do not provoke me, sir. 
You find me in a mood remote before : 
Reluctant for a fray, but dangerous. 

Walpole. Were not the Rowley poems forged by you ? 

Chatterton. I plead ' not guilty. ' 

Walpole, Why, you so confessed ; 

And Gray and Mason date the verse as late. 

Chatterton. In m_y brief study of the law, I gleaned 
That forgery is a writing made or marred 
Against another's right. Whose right is crossed 
If, as a monk, I elfin grants engross ? 
The crime is in your diction not my deed : 
You seek to damn me with a word misused. 

Walpole. Your craft might lead to sembling notes of 
hand. 

Chatterton. Go punish might-bes and the Pope will 
hang. 
You wrote 'The Castle of Otranto,' sir. 
And in the preface solemnly declared 
That in the north of England it was found. 



/IDar^ IRebcliffe* [act v. 

Translated from black-letter of Muralto 
By William Marshal ; all of which is feigned. 
You donned a domino to shirk the world ; 
I wore a cowl lest it should pass me by. 
Perhaps, in realm ideal, both would swing 
For masquerading in the fane of Truth ; 
But we are on the earth, where life at best 
Must be a compromise or martyrdom. — 
If you come here in fairness, welcome, sir ; 
If fixed in bias, better to depart. 

Walpole. I will depart when going gladdens me. 
You can not play Francisco w4th me, boy : 
Although I might mistake you for his son, 
Did I not know your father's wild career. 

Chatterton. You'll drive me into Billingsgate or Bed- 
lam. 
My father was a man of noble parts. 
Perchance a genius, pressed by low estate 
To see that children came clean-washed to school, 
And bear the fool-dominion of a board. 
Small wonder he found solace in the cup, 
And wandered on the Avon's bank at night 
Shaking his frenzied fists at all the stars 
In impotent defiance. 

Walpole. Your mother, too — 

183 



Act v.] TTbe Bar^ ot 



Chatterton. She has a limitation in some things, 
But not in love. Speak not her name again : 
I would protect you while I have the power. 

Walpole. She may be milky but she is low-bred. 

Chatterton. You've loosed a wild-cat on your family 
tree ! 
Your own reputed father was a beast — 
A bull in office brought down by the nose. 

Walpole. How dare you say ' reputed ' ? 

Chatterton. You shall hear : 

Years after your last brother you were born. 

Walpole. What if there were eleven years be- 
tween us ? 

Chatterton. It is one candle : I will melt five more. 
No human beings less resemblance show 
Than you and Robert Walpole. 

Walpole. God of heaven ! 

Chatterton. His bulky form, his comely face — 

Walpole. Enough ! 

Chatterton. You have Lord Hervey's lineaments and 
frame, 
His trick in writing and his smirking grace. — 
Three candles lighted in as many lines. 

Walpole. [Starting toward the door.~\ 
I will not listen to this infamous charge. 

184 



/E)ar^ 1Ret)clitCe^ [act v. 

Chatterton. [Seizing the sword and running to the 
doorway^ 
Approach this door, and I will turn a leech 
And test whose brat you are. 

Walpole. You are insane ! 

Chatterton. Sir Robert and his lady were estranged, 

Walpole. It is a lie ! 

Chatterton. Throughout your infancy, 

Your father treated you with tart neglect ; 
And till at Eton you upheld his name. 
Could not endure your cuckoldising face. 

Walpole. 'Tis fell as night ! 

Chatterton. I have another dip. 

You bear the birth-marks of a love-child, sir : 
Fastidious, boorish j artificial, frank ; 
Broad and despotic ; generous and mean ; 
With potent talents in a petty mind. 
The last of the six candles is aflame : 
Your father is not Walpole but Lord Carr, 
The eldest son of Hervey, Earl of Bristol ! 

Walpole. Oh, for a sword ! 

Chatterton. [Throwing the sword to Walpole. "^ 

A fairy heard your cry. 

Walpole. [Picking up the sword eagerly^ 
Now I will pierce your heart as you pierced mine. 

"85 



r 



Act v.] XTbe Barb ot 



\Chatterton bursts into a wild laugh ^ 
With words not weapons. 

Chatterton. They must needs be sharp. 

Walpole. Sharper and shorter than a hunting-knife. 
You heard Francisco speak of one you love : 
He spoke the truth, for she at last did yield. 

Chatterton. You bastard ! 

Walpole. Tush ! that dart has spent its force. 

She hugged the priestly poet and repulsed 
The vagrant passion of the beggar-boy. 
That brought a sigh ; could you not spill a tear ? 

Chatterton. I'll not believe your spite. 

Walpole. You shall have proof. 

You flared six candles ; I will flash a score 
To show that Horace — Hervey, if you please, — 
Unhorsed old Rowley in the lists of iove, 
And wears the lady's favour. 

Chatterton. You married her? 

Walpole. \_With mocking laughter. '\ 
I could not so corrupt my Hervey blood. 
You may espouse her in a year or two ; 
For matrons can not be so nice as maids. 
And she looks kindly on you — pities you. 

Chatterton. Spout not of pity : we are in the lists j 
No quarter given and no quarter asked. 

i86 



/»ar^ iRe^clifre^ [act v. 

Walpole. 'Twould melt Tintagel's rock to hear her 
plead 
For me to aid you, with her naked arms 
Entrailing me like sprays of rambling rose ; 
Her eyes half-closed and swimming in their light ; 
Her redolent tresses willowing her breast — 
But you turn white and tremble. 

Chatterton. Spare me not, 

Lest in my soul one spark of mercy glow. 

Walpole, In faith, her lips undo their suasion quite ; 
For with their moistening pressure they remove 
From memory's page the pledge their music won : 
Else had I called before. 

Chatterton. Have you said all ? 

Walpole. Nay, I could clasp the fanciful a week 
And never weary, were she o'er the seas ; 
But dwelling here in London at my house, 
I can embrace the real ; so take my leave. 
\Chatterton closes the door hurriedly, locks it y puts the 
key 171 his pockety and, taking off his coat, throivs it 
upon the floor, while Walpole looks at him in alarm. '\ 
What do you purpose ? 

Chatterton. Not to boggle, sir ; 

Now weapons and not words. 

Walpole. Give me that key ! 

187 



Act v.] TTbe Bar^ ot 



Chatterto7i. [ Going to the table and wrenching out the 
dagger. 1 
'Tis fitting that the cross should bear you down : 
If what you say is true, you fouled an angel ; 
If it is false, you vilely slander one. 
For either, it is death. 

Walpole. Beware your life ; 

If you rush on me I will run you through ! 

Chatterton. Miss not my heart the width of that keen 
blade, 
Or you are lost past praying. — Are you ready? 

[Loud knocking on the door. 
Walpole. Break down the door ! help ! murder, 
murder, help ! 

[Chatterton runs toward Walpole who slips past 
him. The door is burst open, the lock falling with 
a crash, and Burgum, Mrs. Angell, and Bertha 
Bur gum rush between them. 
Burgum. Hold ! 

Mrs. Angell. Mr. Chatterton ! 
Bertha. For my sake, hold ! 

Burgum. What does this mean ? 
Walpole. He strove to murder me. 

Chatterton. In Clifton once they paid for killing fox. 
Hedgehog, or polecat ; and you are all three. 

i88 



llbaV^ tRCbClittC. [Act v. 

Bertha. Give up the dagger. 

Chatterton. Nay, it is the cross, 

Which rests in peace-time on the altar here. 

\Goes to the table a?id fixes the dagger in it. 

Walpole. He is stark mad. 

Chatterton. I am unweaponed now. 

Bertha. How did this quarrel rise ? 

Walpole. I told him all. 

Bertha. You should have kept part secret. 

Chatterton. \_Iromcally.~\ Lack-a-day ! 

Walpole. Nor did I gloss the nature of my suit. 
Which, to untempted Impotence or Age, 
Is e'er a crime past clergy ; that I came. 
Upon your hint, to minister to his muse. 
As kind of penance for my amorous course. 
At which, with jealous rage, he locked the door. 
And would have slain me had you not appeared. 

Bertha. 'Tis not astounding that it angered him. 
[Then to Chatter ton. ~\ 
Do not endeavour to avenge the wrong : 
I have forgiven him. 

Burgum. Avenge what wrong ? 

Walpole. I will inform you as we ride toward 
home. 

Chatterton. [To Bertha']. Came he from you? 

189 



Act v.] XTbe 3Bar^ of 



Bertha. He came at my request 

Made in rash moment, for I pitied you. 

Chatterton. His very words ! Condone my rashness, 
lady : 
I am an errant of the chivalrous past, 
A knight in pantaloons — with broken lance. 
\Then turning to Bur gum. '\ 
Proceed to business and have done with else : 
What loadstone have I here ? 

Bur gum. You brazen rogue, 

The Heralds' College disallows my Arms : 
The Pedigree is stuff ! What say you, boy ? 

Bertha. Wait till to-morrow, father. 

Bur gum. Not a breath. 

Walpole. He is so youthful, we must not be harsh. 

Chatterton. \Turning to Walpole. '\ 
Open your jaws except to curse me, sir, 
And I will speed you to that cirque where bawds 
Are lapped in warring blasts. 

Burgum. Your answer now. 

Chatterton. E'en in this fevered wilderment of mind. 
The strong excuse that rises eloquent 
Shall be o'erruled : I plead for clemency. 

Burgum. Will that restore to me my Norman 
sires ? 

190 



/iDari? 1Ret)Clitfe» [act v. 

Chafterton. Born on this merry Isle, you have enough 
With English birth and birthright. 

Burgum. I'll have revenge ! 

Chatterton. Revenge is yours beyond your direst wish, 
For I am suffering more than you can feel ; 
But if you deem that punishment too slight, 
There is a poniard, and my soul's unarmed. 

Burgum. I will proclaim your perfidy abroad, 
That you may straggle, like a branded Cain, 
Without a friend on earth. 

Chatterton. I have a friend 

Who would do more for me than for himself ; 
Whose gentle nature, like St. Andrew's Spring, 
Pours forth a never-failing flood of love, 
To nourish flowers or bathe the dusty streets ; 
Murmuring at times, but ever sweet and low. 
He stands like Tor Hill on the plain of Wells ; 
Go move him if you can. 

Burgum. Who is he, pray? 

Chatterton. His name is Thomas Phillips. 

Burgum. \_Chuckling brutally. ~\ He is dead. 

Chatterton. That lie makes you my debtor ! 

Burgum. It is the truth : 

George Catcott wrote me that Tom Phillips died 
From cold he caught in London. 

191 



Act v.] Ubc 3Bar^ of 



Chatterton. O my God ! — 

You are too cruel had I killed your son. 
If you say this to crush my spirit down, 
See, I am humbled, all my pride is gone. 
Tell me he lives. 

Bertha. Alas ! your friend is dead. 

Chatterton. Then God has been dethroned ! — Leave 
me alone : 
My grief is kingly and must not be seen. 
\Chatterton stands like a statue y the tears rolling down 
his cheeks y till the others have gone down the stairs; 
then he goes to the door, closes ity and sinks sobbing 
upon his knees y his hands clinging to the frame. ~\ 
O Phillips, Phillips ! — Dear Tom Phillips dead ! 
And Bertha Burgum Walpole's paramour ! 
Not all earth's wealth could keep me on it now : 
Tell father I am coming, dearest friend. 
\Rises and goes totvard the table but stops. '\ 
No dagger : I will not profane the cross. 

So7ig Man. \_From the street. ] 
Songs ! Songs ! Songs ! Beautiful songs ! 
Love songs, new songs, old songs — all for a penny ! 
Chatterton. The price is up, and poets now can 
nibble 
At hopes and biscuit in Tom's Coffee House. 

192 



/IDar^ IRe^cltffe* [act v. 

That minds me of a task yet unperformed. 

\_Thro'WS his coat upon the bed and goes to the deal boxJ\ 

I must be swift and steady in the work 

Of murdering my babes. 

\Opens the box, selects a manuscript , and re ads. '\ 

'A Song to^lla.' 
That will repay the City for my burial : 
I shall owe London nothing. [^Futs it aside.'] 

Recall her fall ! 
^Tears up the manuscripts. 

Song Ma n . \_More faintly from th e street. ] 
Songs ! Songs ! Songs ! Beautiful songs ! 
Love songs, new songs, old songs — all for a penny ! 

Chatter ton . \_Rising. ] 
Think not, my children, that this moves me not 
Because my eyes are dry : the scalding tears 
Are dropping on my heart ; and we shall meet 
Above the fateful glimmer of the stars. — 
I'll comb my hair : my exit must be seemly. 
\Takes up a candle and a comb and goes to the mirror.'] 
If it be sooth that hair grows in the grave, 
What famous locks I'll have. \_C07nbs out his auburn 

hair and then pauses.] This mirror gleams 

A crystal lake in which my wraith appears, 
With Orkney sea-weed spread upon its head, 

13 193 



Act v.] XTbe Bar^ ot 



Foreshadowing my doom. I shall not live 

To hold a candle nightly to the glass 

And watch my face grow old : to see the lines 

Deepen to ditches round the eyes and mouth 

When Time besieges Beauty ; to make that fight, 

Which must be lost, against the first gray hairs — 

Plucking them out lest winged Love espy 

The ghostly vanguard of advancing years. 

Nor last, with taper held in palsied clutch. 

To view the muddy orbs, the lips caved in. 

The visage rutted, as if a thousand cares, 

After long rains, had driven their heavy wains. 

With iron-bound wheels, across the features. — No ! 

The spirit of my youth shall never peer 

Through Age's hideous mask. [Leaves the mirror. '\ 

You fly too high 
For sorrow ; stoop, my Fancy, lest your pitch 
Impugn my grief and lure me into living. 
I'll singe your wings ! [Flashes the light about ^ stops 
suddenly^ and laughs. '\ 

Theatric on the brink ! 
Most like, in maddening moonlight. Death and I 
Will sit upon my grave and forge antiques. 
We'll split the point of his insatiate dart. 
And write in poets' blood, on their white skulls, 

194 



/iDar^ IRebclttfe. [act v. 

The songs they left unsung. 'Twill be revenge 

To make of hungry Death a harmless bard, 

With nothing but a pen to fill his maw. 

Death being dartless, fools will multiply : 

Each foot of ground will have its occupant, 

And then they'll stand upon each other's heads 

Until the topmost clamber into heaven. — 

Lend me a hand, dear Phillips ; pull me up ! 

[Extends his hand heavenward, and then, bursting into 

tears, brings it down across his eyes."] 
There'll be a horrid screaming in the morning. 
The Coroner and jurymen will find : 
* Drank opium in water, Friday night. 
The twenty-fourth of August, seventeen seventy. 
At Brooke Street, Holborn, number thirty -nine, 
T. Chatterton, about eighteen — unknoAvn.' 
The shell will be of rough boards painted black — 
The heart, perchance, of some tall singing pine 
Besmirched by hands like those that felled the tree ; 
And Curiosity, not Love, will look 
The last time on my face. One ghoul may say. 
As I am borne past Shoe Lane Workhouse wall, 
' The boy was handsome ; pity he was starved ; 
And yet, well-fed, he would have galled our hands. 
We'll take what London pays us for this job, 

195 



Act v.] TTbe Bar^ ot 



And at the Three Crowns drink the youngster's health 

In tankards of old ale. — Quick step, my lads ! ' 

If they consign me to the common pit, 

And when my bones disjoint, my skeleton 

Should seek a missing foot or this dear hand, 

How those old skulls will grin ! What's that to me? 

No wizard word can conjure up from hell 

A fiend more dread than one dissembling friend 

Exulting in my writhe. Enough of both ; 

I'll see how Mors looks bottled. 

[^Goes to the bed, takes a phial from his coat, and comes 

down holding the poison before his eyes."] 

Were Fancy free 
To finger o'er this simple cadence, death, 
She'd find rich harmonies in senseless things. 
And write a fugue that would not end till doomsday. 
Instead of that, I'll mull some Bristol milk, 
The brew she uses when she weans her bards 
From her cold breast — the pap she fed to Savage. 
[^Goes to the washstand, pours water into a glass, and 

takes the glass to the table. '\ 
What shape will issue ? Come, Beelzebub ! 
\Uncorks the phial and looks round. '\ 
His horns stick fast, or may be that he fears 
To fright me from my purpose. — Well, no matter. 

196 



/IDari^ lRet)cllffe» [act v. 

\Pours the opiufu into the water. '^^ 

The bubbles rise : quick, quick ! a soul is drowning. 

\Stirs the poison with a qui 11. "^ 

I'll push it back as I immerse a fly 

To shield it from chill weather. \_Knocking on the door.'\ 

Who is that ? 
It may be Bertha — she returned before — 
And I may see her, save her, ere I die ! 

[ Goes to the door^ opens it, and starts back as Mrs. 
Angell enters with a basket o?i her arm. 
Mrs. Angell. Mr. Francisco brought this for you, 

sir. 
Chatter ton. [Taking the basket and looking into it.^ 
Tarts, apple-fritters, jelly and champagne. — 
I have no relish for these dainties, madam : 
Give them to little Bertha, and tell the child 
To pray for me to-night. 

Mrs. Angell. You must eat, sir. 

Chatterton. Well, leave them by the table on the 

floor. 
Mrs. Ajigell. The lady, ere she left, bade me supply 
Your wants, and she — 

Chatterton. Would pay with Walpole's gold! 

[Picks up WalpoW s purse and hurls it upon the fioor. 
Enter Bertha Burgum unseen. 
197 



Act v.] Ubc Bat5 of 



Jfrs. Angell. She meant not to distress you. Take 
some wine. 

Chatterton. [Raising the glass of poison.^ 
In bitter water, a more fitting draught 
For Bedouin lost upon the desert sands, 
I drink the damsel's health ! [^Drinks. 

Bertha. Drink now to me. 

Chatterton. [ Turjiing and seeing her. ] 
The toast was to you, lady. 

Bertha. You are ill ! 

Chatterton. I pant for pleasure in a wish fulfilled. 

Be7'tha. Dear Mrs. Angell, we must be alone : 
There is a secret that I would impart. 

Mrs. Angell. I hope that it is cheering ; for the boy 
Has borne enough. 

Bertha. I hope so, too. 

Mrs. Angell. Good-night. 

\_Exit Mrs. Angell as he puts the glass on the washstand. 

Bertha. Please give me some beginning to my tale : 
'Tis harder to own folly than offence. 

Chatterton. Speak freely, lady, for I know the worst ; 
And, needing mercy, I am merciful. 

Bertha. One thing you can not know. 

Chatterton. Alas ! I do, 

And love you madly still. 

198 



/Rar^ IRebcltfte^ [act v. 

Bertha. \In a whisper. '\ I came in time. — 
How could I be so foolish ! 

Chatterton. No good is tardy : 

Oh, leave him, lady, leave a life of shame \ 
Where love is lacking, dalliance is foul. 

Bertha. I know not what you mean ! 

Chatterton. He says you are — 

I must pronounce it — are his paramour. 

Bertha. He tells a groundless lie ! 

Chatterton. \With a wild cry. '\ Thank God ! thank 
God! 

Bertha. He made proposals that were met with 
scorn ; 
Professed repentance \ begged me not to tell 
My father, or to quit the house at once. 
Lest it would scandal him ; asked w^hat good deed 
Lay in his might to prove reform sincere ; 
And rashly then I pointed to your claim. 
I have his letters to attest the truth ; 
For I refused to encounter him alone. 

Chatterton. Oh, I could make him tread with naked 
feet 
On plates of red-hot iron, marking each step 
With strips of burning flesh ! 

Bertha. You are o'erwrought. 

199 



Act v.] ube Bar^ of 



Chatterton. My soul for one short hour ! — But he 
shall live 
Chained to my corpse for aye ! 

Bertha. Be calm and listen. 

I took a separate hack, making excuse 
That he must speak to father on a theme 
I could not hear discussed ; and then returned, 
Against all custom, form, and girlish pride, 
To say that I — that I had waked to love. 

Chatterton. O Mary Redcliffe, did you know of this. 
And let me perish ? 

Bertha. [Sinking upon a chair. '\ You will despise 

me now. 
Chatterton. [Kneeling beside her and taking her hands. ] 
Despise you, Bertha ? O my love ! my love ! 
No saint is worshipped as I worship you ; 
And I am half a spirit — half removed 
From fleshly passion now. [Goes to the table and takes 
front the drawer a bunch of faded flower s.'\ 

See, I have kept 
The lilacs that once bloomed upon your breast ; 
They withered though I watered them with tears. 
Bertha. [Rising^ Forgive me, Tom. 
Chatterton. [Taking her in his arms."] You are my 
own at last ! 

200 



/©ar^ IRebcltffe* [act v. 

The blossom of my life is now full-blown, 
And its leaves are rustling in the autumn wind. 

Bertha. I was so young that I felt very old, 
And you seemed but a child. 

Chatter ton. The past is past ; 

The present makes amend. 

Bertha. The future, too ; 

For I have learned that Reverend Dr. Fry, 
The head of St. John's College, Oxford, read 
Your Rowley poems, and is coming down 
To greet the truest poet of the age. 

Chatterton. To die when Fame's bronze gates are 
opening wide. 
And Love is walking with me hand in hand ! 
'Tis well : I am a creature born of fire, 
And could not live 'mong mortals. 

Bertha. You are fagged. 

And speak so strangely. 

Chatterton. Happiness is strange ; 

And you remember I was ever odd : 
They dubbed me * The Mad Genius * in our town. 

Bertha. Your vision has been clouded by the storm ; 
All will be sunlight after one long sleep. 

Chatterton. If I should die — 

Bertha. Oh, no ! 

201 



Act v.] u\yc 3Bar5 ox 



Chatterton. But if I should, 

For frost oft kills the firstlings in the spring, 
Console my mother and my sister, love ; 
And go to Mary Redcliffe, where my ghost 
Will walk the pillared aisles on moonlit nights. — 
And now no more of dying or of death : 
This is our wedding-night. 

Bertha. Our wedding-night ? 

Chatterton. We'll christen it 'The Marriage of Two 
Souls.' 
\He passes his hand over his brow ; for the voices of a 
choir are heard singing as they sang in the muniment 
room, but more faintly j for they are sounding in his 
mind.'\ 
But first I must be shriven from all sin. 
Kneel with me at this altar, love, and say, 
' Saint Mary Redcliffe, pardon Chatterton ; 
For my sake, pardon him.' Repeat it, dear. 

Bertha. \_Kneeling beside him.~\ 
' Saint Mary Redcliffe, pardon Chatterton ; 
For my sake, pardon him.' 

Chatterton. [As they rise.'] That is enough ; 
For, clearer than those voices, come the words, 
* Forgive him, for he knew not what he did. ' 
Bertha. What voices, Tom ? 

202 



/iDar^ 1Re^clttfe♦ [act v. 

Chatterton. \_Dreamingly .'\ Do you not hear them ? 

Bertha. No. 

Chatterton. My father sang in the Cathedral choir. 
\Nearly swooning, he grasps the table for support. '\ 
Open the window, dear, the air is close ! 
\Then as she goes to the window and opens it.l^ 
I am coming, Mary Redcliffe ; give me time 
To bid my earthly love farewell. 

Bertha. \_Returning anxiously to hiin.'\ O Tom ! 

Chatterton. 'Tis nothing but sheer weariness — no 
more : 
You know how hard on me the day has been. 

Bertha. Then I must go, 

Chatterton. Yes, dearest, it is wise : 

Love can not beat off Slumber with his wings. 

\A distant clock begins to strike the hour. 

Bertha. When shall I come again ? 

Chatterton. I leave here soon. 

Meet me, dear Bertha, in the muniment room — 
My Uncle Richard will give you the key — 
Next Friday night upon the stroke of ten : 
The hour is tolling now. 

Bertha. I'll meet you there. 

Chatterton. But one more kiss, my love ! \Strains her 
to his breast and kisses her.'\ And fare-you-well. 

203 



Act v.] Ube JSarD ot 



Bertha. \_Going to the doorway and turning^ 
Good -night, dear Tom. 

Chatterton. [ With forced cheerfulness. ~\ 

You see how strong I am ! 
\As Bertha descends the stairs, Chatterton steals to 
the landing and leans against the doorfrajne. 
Drunken Woman. \From the street, singing in maud- 
lin tones with occasional bursts of laughter, "^ 

I put my hand into a bush, 

I pricked my finger to the bone, 

I saw a ship saihng along, 

I thought the sweetest flowers to find. 

Chatterton. \Rushing out on the landing and calling 
wildly as the door below closes with a bang."] 
Bertha ! Bertha ! Bertha ! — Die here alone, 
You selfish fool, and spare her all you can. 
[Be- enters the room.'\ 
The gall of cuttle-fish and aloe wood, 
Red styrax and red roses have been burned — 
The room is full of blood, with zigzag lightning 
Flashing before my eyes ! I'll kneel and pray. 
\As he kneels before the table, the sounds of a ho7-7i, of 
wheels, and of St. Werburgh^ s song are heard as 
they were heard before, and he rises delirious. "^ 

204 



/IDar^ IRebcliffe^ [act v. 

The coach ! — 

The coach is coming at a spanking pace ! 

Do not weep, mother ; it is for the best : 

You and fond sister shall wear silks and gems, 

And ride to service in a chaise -and -four. 

Fear not for me ; my courage will not fail : 

Westminster Abbey shall enclose my bones. 

\The sounds of the coach cease. ~\ 

I must not tarry, for the coach is here. 

I've taken Bristol ; now for London Town ! 

[^Goes to the bed and sits down upon it as if it were the 

basket of a coach. '\ 
Good-bye, dear mother, sister, Phillips, too ; 
May Mary Redcliffe bless you — every one. 

\_His head sinks slowly back upon the pillow, the 
singing grows fainter and fainter, and the coach 
wheels roll away. Then all sounds cease as the 
hand holding the faded lilacs falls from his breast 
over the side of the bed; and he lies, as if asleep in 
the 7nuniment room, dead in the moonlight. 
Watchman. \_From the street. '\ Past ten o'clock and 
all's well ! Past ten o'clock and all's well ! Past 
ten o'clock and all's well ! 
Curtain. 



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